


The Sum of Promises Kept

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Series: The Other Side of the War [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Family, Friendship, Godfather Severus Snape, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Hogwarts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lawyer Hermione Granger, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Multi, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, POV Multiple, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Slytherin, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), long-fic, seriously it's angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 90,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: SEQUEL TO 'THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WAR'.Twenty-five-year-old Draco Malfoy thought he'd finally won the life he always hoped for, free from the constraints and manipulation of the Malfoy family, settled with his childhood-sweetheart Theo Nott and raising Scorpius his own way, and ready to tackle the flawed Wizarding World with Harry Potter. But the Malfoys were never going to let go so easily. To them, Scorpius is their future and they are determined to recraft the boy back into an acceptable heir. Caught between the desperate desire to be reunited with his son and the Bigger Picture, Draco struggles with his conscience and responsibilities, trapped between his new life and his old.





	1. The Line Between Selfish and Sensible

**Author's Note:**

> Book One: The Other Side of the War https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680482/chapters/26291463

“Hermione Granger to see Draco Malfoy.”

The desk-Auror gives her a cursory once-over then pushes the sign-in ledger across the counter. Hermione signs, hands her wand over and then, not waiting to be shown the way, stalks through the guarded doors on the other side of the partition. She has been here enough in the last fortnight to know the routine by now. So has everyone else. No-one within spares her so much as a cursory glance as she casts about, looking for her client; a far-cry from the out-burst of cat-calls and wolf-whistles that had bombarded her the first few times. They ignore her now just as effectively as she ignores them.

So, unfortunately, does Draco Malfoy. He is perched, stiff and straight-backed on the edge of the narrow bench he’s claimed as his own; a scrap of personal space amongst the clamour of forced communal living. His face is angled away, though his eyes catch hers immediately and they follow her right up to the bars, until the guard calls, “Malfoy.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” he says when, finally, she gets him into the visiting room and the guard removes the spell binding his wrists. He rubs them unconsciously; pink weals stark against pale skin.

“Neither do I,” she says, flat and unimpressed. Then, “You look like shit, Malfoy.”

 Draco smiles. “Three weeks without bathing will do that to a person.”

“That is no-one’s fault but your own.”

“I’m not signing it.”

“You are no good to anyone in here. Least of all Scorpius.”

“I’m no good to him out there either if I sign that damn contract.”

“You are being _selfish_.”

Malfoy sits back and angles his face away, arms folded tight across his chest. His eyes are shadowed, his face sunken. His hair hangs lank, heavy and unwashed over shoulders that have become sharp and bony where once they were merely slender. No-one is taken care of in a place like this, but usually inmates at least _try_ to look after themselves. Malfoy, it seems, has given up entirely. A deathless suicide.

“Davinport is ready to post your bail,” says Hermione. “Has been since day one. If you’d just sign—”

“No.”

“ _Draco_.”

Grey eyes flash to catch hers, so sharp it jars her. “The moment I set foot outside this place,” he tells her, just as he’s told her every time they’ve seen each other since his arrest “I am going straight to my son. I will not pretend otherwise. I will not compromise.”

“So you would rather stay in here?” Hermione says with a sneer. “You would rather remain caged than risk your pride?”

Both hands slam on the table between them. “I would rather remain _caged_ than willingly leave my son in _their_ hands.” They have already caught the guard’s attention. Her wand is already out. This meeting is already over. Draco sees it too, watches it judder through him before turning desperately back to Hermione. “Tell Theo, tell Potter—”

“Move it, Malfoy.”

“—They should be doing more. They _promised_ me—”

“ _Silencio_.”

Malfoy cringes when the wand tip jabs him in the throat, and his last expression as he’s hustled away curls something in her heart. There is no defiance, no anger. Just fear. _Help me._ But how the hell is she supposed to do that if he won’t even help himself?

“Dammit,” she mutters, collecting her wits and hating this place with every bit of herself. Hating, most of all, that she’ll have to return for another inevitably pointless attempt at talking sense into him.

The conditions for Draco’s release were drawn up by the Malfoys’ lawyer within a day of the arrest, so swift it had to already have been planned and prepared. He could not set foot within ten miles of the Manor, he was to have no contact with his family unless planned in advance. He was to have no contact with Scorpius at all. Breaking that agreement would land him immediately and irretrievably in Azkaban without trial.

And Draco refuses to sign, refuses to agree to the sanctions, even those which would free him immediately. Bail had been set absurdly high on the assumption that Draco would have no-one to advocate for him able or willing to pay the small fortune needed, all his contacts stripped away with his name and reputation. They were wrong. Pansy’s husband, Andrew – to his credit – had only blanched a little when he’d heard the price before agreeing to pay every Knut. Three years into their marriage and that was the first moment Pansy could confidently, unflinchingly say she loved him.

That was three weeks ago.

And Draco Malfoy is still locked up.

 

*

 

They sit in what had once been their usual table in the Leaky Cauldron, though their numbers have changed recently. Instead of sitting opposite Draco and next to Blaise, Theo finds himself beside Harry and looking across at Pansy’s husband Andrew, the older man distinctly uncomfortable and drinking tea; fingers thumping a thoughtless beat as he watches the door, waiting for Granger’s return. Pansy, beside him, hasn’t touched her spitting purple drink. Her shoulders are stiff, her expression inscrutable, though  the shallow breath between parted lips betrays her unhappiness.

Harry and Theo are silently racing through their pints like they’re chasing a Snitch. They have spent a shocking amount of time together in the last few weeks, Theo having moved in ten doors down from the Potters with the love of his life and beloved godson, and then promptly losing both within a few days. Being in the house alone is unbearable to say the least; every inch of the damned place a brutal reminder of his utter failure. After taking Albus home following Harry’s arrest and telling Ginny the story, Theo stayed with her and helped with the kids as she scrambled to work out what the hell she was going to do now. She was, as ever, pragmatic and stoic – as hardy and brave as any born-Gryffindor – but it didn’t change the fact that they had three young children and she was very abruptly on her own.

“I can’t face them,” she admitted softly when Theo mentioned her family – the Weasleys being the closest, most functioning familial unit he’s ever known. “Not yet. I… I need to work out what’s going on before I have to tell anyone else.”

Not that they didn’t already know, news having spread faster than the _Prophet_ could report it.

Theo took that on too, fielding the bombardment of concerned owls, protecting Ginny and the kids from the nosiness and the well-wishes alike. There are even some for Draco, sitting on their new kitchen table, waiting for him. One bearing the familiar Hogwarts crest. When they arrive, Theo props them up, unopened by the vase of dying flowers to wait for Draco’s return.

He’d rather focus on Ginny and the kids and their life than his own.

They’re a good distraction.

He isn’t allowed to see Draco. _Family only._

Astoria could visit, any time she likes. And his fucking parents.

All the _cunts_ who’ve ripped him apart, yet no-one who actually loves him.

It stutters Theo’s heart every time it crosses his mind. _Too often_.

He drinks with his eyes shut – praying today will be different than yesterday and knowing it won’t be – and wins the unspoken contest by slamming down his empty glass.

Harry shifts beside him, the sway slight but distinct. “’Nother?”

“Nah,” says Theo. Then, amending, “Not yet.”

He wants to be lucid to hear Granger explain why Draco’s not coming home today.

Because that’s why Andrew’s tagged along, the outrageous bail sitting heavy in his pocket, ready to spring Draco free. But, apparently, Draco does not want to be free. He wants to sit in there, with every excuse not to fight, and just _sulk_. Apparently. Hasn’t quite pegged that he is literally useless, sitting in there being a selfish _shit_.

Can’t get Scorpius back behind bars.

Theo grunts, grinding the heel of a palm hard to his forehead.

So what’s his own fucking excuse then? Why hasn’t he Apparated straight to Wiltshire, stormed Malfoy Manor and snatched Scorpius up?

Because the line between sensible and cowardly is as fine as the one between brave and stupid, and Theo is seesawing _badly_.

Potter’s release, though it occurred less than two days after his arrest, is restrictive and conditional, more-or-less house-arrest without the confinement. All privacy has been withdrawn, every spell and every movement monitored. And he cannot, under _any_ circumstance, go anywhere near Malfoy Manor. Pansy is, as ever, the pragmatic voice that insists upon caution, upon playing the long-game. It mirrors Granger whose profession it is to Know These Things.

Theo knows without any doubt at all that they are both right – trying to get at Scorpius now will inevitably land him in the cell right beside Draco, and then they’ll both be useless.

It’s almost tempting.

But only in the most selfish sort of way.

But at least he’d’ve tried.

At least he could face Draco and say that.

 _In the most selfish sort of way_.

Theo opens his mouth and turns to Potter, ready to say, “About that drink—” when the pub door opens and in stalks Hermione Granger, grim-faced and glowering. She comes right at them, and Theo and Harry barely have time to scooch before she throws herself down on the end of the bench and grabs for the last swallow of Harry’s pint.

“Nothing?” says Andrew.

“Nothing,” says Hermione.

Pansy makes a hissing sound of derision between her teeth. “Stupid, stubborn _prick_.”

“How is he?” Theo asks, leaning to look around the barricade of Potter. “How does he look?”

But Granger only shakes her head. She is stingy with information, he’s learnt; giving away nothing she deems unimportant. And apparently Draco’s state is just that.

“Any progress on yesterday?” Harry tries but, again, she shakes her head.

“He won’t even consider the agreement. And there’s no way they’ll release him without it.”

“Did you tell him the bail money’s ready to go?” Pansy asks, her own concern audible. “That he could be out within the hour?”

“Of course. It meant nothing. He says—” She licks her lips with a hesitant flick of the eyes between Harry and Theo. “He will not compromise. That the moment he’s out, he’s going straight to Scorpius and nothing, not even the threat of Azkaban, will stop him.”

Heavy silence falls across the table, blanketing them all.

Then, softly, “He will not listen to reason.”

“That’s because it isn’t reasonable.”

They all look at once to Theo who hadn’t even realised he’d spoken out-loud.

“Well, it isn’t, is it?” he says. “You can’t ask Draco to stay away from Scorp. You just can’t. Even in the _best_ circumstances. And now, when Scorp’s stuck right in the middle of all Draco’s been fighting to protect him from?” He sits back with a dry laugh, shaking his head. “There’s no way. Absolutely no way.” It’s been hard enough for Theo, has had to force himself to listen to sense, listen to Granger and _stay away from the Malfoys_. Times that by at least a million – at _least_ – and maybe he can understand a fragment of what Draco feels because _Merlin._ Theo had hated it, all those years when they’d been kids and he’d been powerless to help Draco, trapped in that damned house with those _people_. It had been hell, knowing what they were doing to him and being able to do absolutely nothing about it; witnessing the aftermath, his friend beaten into something too close to subservience; the deadened look in Draco’s eyes and the marks deemed insignificant enough to bother healing, hidden by long sleeves and deliberate inattention. If he could function, he was fine.

“Don’t touch me,” Draco would snap, twitching away from concerned hands. “Stop fussing.”

“Why won’t you do anything?” Theo had demanded of Snape more than once. “Why do you keep sending him back there?” But Snape’s powerlessness only mirrored his own. There was nothing either of them could do. Nothing _any_ of them could do. Legality had them all bound up so tight it choked them.

Just as it binds Draco now.

The thought of it all going around again – Draco is Snape’s place, Scorp in Draco’s, like a cruel game of musical chairs – whips around Theo’s throat and suffocates him.

 _No_. It can’t. It mustn’t. But he can’t see a way—

“So what do we do?” Potter asks. “What’s the solution? Because – and correct me if I’m wrong, Hermione – but I’m pretty sure the longer he refuses to cooperate, the worse it’s going to be, right? The only way to get Scorp out of that place is to get Draco up and running again.”

“He needs to understand that the only way to proceed is with caution,” Pansy murmurs. “The long-game is more important than instant gratification.”

“A long-game that traps Scorp there with Lucius fucking Malfoy!” Theo rips free of the gentling hand on his shoulder. “ _No_ ,” he snarls. “No. This isn’t theoretical. This isn’t some academic problem. This is _Scorpius_. We can’t— _I_ can’t—” _I can’t let Draco down again_. ”How the fuck are we going to convince him if _this_ is your argument?”

“Scorpius Malfoy isn’t alone with Lucius,” says Hermione. “You talk as though they’re trapped together, but that completely disregards Astoria and Narcissa. Surely they’re tempering factors—”

“Draco tried to leave long before his father’s return was even a consideration,” Pansy tells her as Theo makes wordless sounds of disgust at the mention of the Malfoy women. “He never trusted them with Scorpius.”

“Astoria is their willing puppet,” says Harry. “That’s the impression I get. She’ll do anything they suggest. As for Narcissa—” His mouth pulls into an expression that Theo feels as his own. Potter gets it. Narcissa Malfoy is as culpable as her fucking husband. “I don’t think we can count on either of them as far as Scorpius goes. I’m with Nott. The sooner the kid’s out, the better.”

Hermione sighs loudly. “I’m not debating that,” she says. “I’m saying that rushing, that acting _rashly_ will do far more harm than good. We need to be proactive – _Draco_ needs to be proactive – but more importantly we need to be _sensible_. We need to keep our heads to save being sucked into whatever games the Malfoys are playing.” She looks between them, her eyes dark and fierce. “You’re all behaving like it’s over, like we’ve already lost and we’re just clawing back some semblance of dignity.”

“Well,” says Pansy, lighting two gold-tipped cigarettes and passing one to Theo, “aren’t we?”

“No.” The women glare at each other, then Granger throws up her hands. “For goodness sake, hope is not lost! And by acting like it is, we are digging our own graves. Scorpius needs hope. _Draco_ needs hope. And it’s our responsibility to give it to them. So, buck up. _Merlin_. Don’t make me feel like I’m wasting my time.”

Heavy silence settles around them, thick with smoke and solemnity. Only Andrew – sharing Pansy’s thin cigarette – smiles in the certainty she is right and waiting for the others to realise it too. It isn’t that Granger’s wrong, as far as Theo is concerned, it’s more that Granger’s assessment – as astute as it is – offers no tangible solution. Pansy’s in the same place, her brow set in a troubled frown. They both know from experience that theories and good intentions are all well and good, but they don’t set things _right_. They don’t incite change. Potter’s not quite there but he’s close. Having spent significant time in the company of Slytherins, he’s starting to see the world their way – not in Dumbledore’s simple black and white, but a complex maze in countless, barely distinguishable shades of grey. It takes a life-time to learn how to navigate the maze. Potter has a long way to catch up, but he’s getting there.

“What do we do?” The question comes crisp and quiet, reluctant on Pansy’s tongue. She meets Granger’s eyes coolly. “How do we give Draco hope?”

Hermione, obviously hoping they would provide the answer to that particular question and falters.

It’s Potter who, after a long stretch of silence, finally offers a solution: “We distract him.”

“That’s…not the same—”

“No, yeah, I know that. Obviously. But it’s the next best thing, isn’t?”

Theo scoffs. “You’ll never be able to distract him from Scorpius.”

“I know that too. But give him something to do, something that’ll keep him sane and safe until—” He waves a hand at Hermione. “—all the shit’s worked out. Because the main thing is keeping him from charging the Manor, right? And that’s not going to happen if he’s fixated. So, let’s give him something else to be fixated on.”

Pansy takes a long, considering drag on her cigarette. “And what do you suggest, Potter?”

Here, Potter looks a little sheepish. “Well,” he says, “we had a plan, didn’t we? Before all this happened. I think we should keep moving with that. And I’m not lying when I say I don’t think I can do it on my own. I need Draco’s help. Let him know that, Hermione, next time. Tell him I can’t get the ball rolling ‘til he’s out. And who knows.” Harry shrugs. “Maybe it’ll even help. It’s the law that’s keeping him away from Scorp. And that’s what we’re trying to change. Tell Draco that.”

Theo isn’t sure. It feels absurdly convoluted, and he stands by the certainty that there’s nothing in the world that can distract Draco from Scorpius. But Granger’s nodding with that tight-lipped smile he’s come to recognize as her version of a grin. Agreeing with everything Potter says.  

So Theo forces a nod, an agreement with the Gryffindors. Because – at this point – anything is better than nothing.

 

 

*

 

With one arm over his face, Draco closes eyes and tries to sleep. It’s a useless attempt. Even if it weren’t for the board that serves as a bed biting into his back, even apart from the perpetual racket of the enclosure, even if he didn’t know perfectly well it was mid-afternoon, his mind is in reeling chaos. Has been ever since the Ministry. Will be until he’s out of here, until his son is back safe in his arms. Draco’s heart stutters. He rolls over, pressing his face into the wood. His pulses races to the beat of _Scorpius Scorpius Scorpius_. Cannot – _will not –_ think of anything else. They don’t know him if they believe he will concede and compromise. He would rather be in Azkaban, rather be _dead_ than willingly knowingly stay away.

Because Draco knows what that is like.

To be less important than everything else.

Not worth the risk.

Not worth fighting for.

Only when it’s convenient and easy.

He knows what that feels like.

And he’ll be damned if he’ll ever let Scorpius feel that way too.

“Malfoy!”

Draco ignores the call. Pretends not to hear. It’ll only be Granger again, ready for another round. No doubt certain that somehow it will be _different_ this time, that she’ll find him more persuadable. He nearly scoffs out loud. Granger is supposed to be the best. That’s what Potter promised. _With Hermione on your side, you stand your best chance._

As though that ever meant anything.

As though he’d had a chance to begin with.

The guard calls louder, patience with him long-spent over the weeks they’ve spent together. “Draco Malfoy. You’re required.”

Draco deigns to open his eyes. He doesn’t see Granger. She’s usually waiting, glaring right back at him.

This visitor refuses to step into the holding cell.

That can only mean it’s someone else.

And that someone else can only be his parents’ lawyer – Collette Luem. She and Granger have been his only visitors, the only two people permitted who aren’t blood relations.

Draco wants to see Collette even less than he wants to see Granger. It was she who first brought the agreement to the table, making it quite plain that it was nonnegotiable. Already set in stone. She had smiled when he’d refused, as though she knew he would. As though that was the desired outcome all along. She spoke in his father’s words, with his mother’s voice. The perfect representative. He had no control, no power. Draco was entirely at her mercy.

He doesn’t look forward to seeing her again.

Still, he drags himself up and, for the second time that day, forces himself the short distance to the door, presenting his wrists for the perfunctory binding.

“None of the shit you pulled earlier,” the guard mutters, pulling the magic tight enough to make him wince. “You’ve been here long enough to know better.”

He doesn’t bother with a response. Will give her no excuse to steal his voice again. They need little motivation, these Aurors, their power minimal though wielded like swords. A glance will remove your meal, one word will take your voice. They would strip you of all that you are, given half a chance. As she leads him back down the hall, Draco smiles to himself. They haven’t realised there is nothing left of him to take.

Turning the corner into the nicer of the visiting rooms, Draco braces for Collette’s crisp smile and the jarring cheerfulness which inevitably accompanies bad news.

He is unprepared for his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy sits where he expected the lawyer and does not look at him; the blue eyes they share landing fixing on the Auror as she says, “Leave us.”

The command from anyone else would’ve been denied flatly and immediately. That is not protocol. One guard must be present at all times.

Narcissa is obeyed with almost mechanical immediacy.

Hands still bound before him, he is left alone; as faltering and uncertain as if he were five-years-old on the threshold of his parents’ rooms.

She waits for him to speak then, when he tries, “Mother—", Narcissa interrupts, “Sit.”

Draco obeys, hooking the worn wooden chair with an ankle to pull it out. “Shouldn’t our lawyers be present?”

One corner of her mouth curls and it’s all Draco can manage to not sink down into himself. He hasn’t often been on the receiving end of his mother’s contempt, as consuming and palpable as his father’s. They are a good match, he thinks dizzily.

“I wanted to see you,” she says, the emphasis on ‘ _you’_. “I have no interest in Granger’s perspective. An interesting choice in council, Draco.”

It’s impossible to meet her eye. “Not exactly a choice.”

“No. I don’t suppose it was. I don’t suppose else is willing to touch you, and Granger does have a reputation for… _pitiable_ cases.”

“You sound just like Father.” Every inch of Draco’s skin prickles, ever muscle tightening in instinctive reaction against her. Against _them_. Lucius’s presence every bit as visceral as hers. She speaks as though she despises him. “Why’re you here, Mother?”

“I wanted to see you,” Narcissa repeats. Then, a little softer, “I wanted to try and understand.”

Because, of course, this is the first time they have seen each other since that fateful night – _a lifetime ago_ – when everything changed between them.

Draco releases a long, steady breath and sits up, opening himself to her scrutiny.

He isn’t ashamed of who he has become or the choices he made. At least, not in the manner she is expecting. He stands by it – _all_ of it – with all the pride of his house and name. He is not crushed. He is not beaten. It isn’t like all those times she visited him in his rooms after an altercation with his father, cowed and contrite and mumbling apologies through trembling lips when she inevitably asked, _“What on earth were you thinking, Draco?”_

“And do you?” he asks of her now.

Narcissa considers him, gaze sweeping through in a single breathless gust, and she says, “No. I don’t.”

“I can explain it if you’d like.”

A twitch of the lips and he almost expects her to laugh. She doesn’t, of course. “Why Potter?” Narcissa asks as her first question. “To go against me? I know you always hated the truce we reached.”

“It had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t personal.” Draco sighs, the memory of the chilled, desperate night still stark – _“This is the journey, Mr Malfoy, not the destination.” –_ of standing on the curb with Scorpius limp in his frozen arms. “I…I couldn’t think where else to go. Potter was a gamble.”

“A gamble that paid off.”

“More than you could ever understand.”

“He would’ve done the same for anyone, Draco. You realise that, don’t you?”

Draco smiles with a low chuckle. “I’m nothing special, you mean.”

“Quite so.”

Draco has always found it a strange incongruity – both his parents have always been keen to instill a sense of superiority afforded by the Malfoy name which sets them apart and above all others; yet, at the same time, in the same breath, they are determined to keep him firmly in his place – isolated, average, unimportant, _unworthy_ of anyone’s particular attention or affection. Worth nothing than that which is bestowed upon him with their grace.

 “Why does that matter to you?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

Narcissa raises her chin. “You yourself have always criticized those associated with Potter for being held in higher esteem merited. I’d hate for you to fall into that trap.”

He laughs properly at that. “Please don’t pretend to feel anything resembling parental concern for me. It’s a waste of both our time. My association with Potter does not require your approval. I went there because our children share a bond, and during our time together we realised we share more common ground than previously assumed.” He can’t help looking away as he says, “Friendship was inevitable.”

“Friendship?” his mother scoffs as he knew she would. “Don’t delude yourself. Why would Harry Potter want to be friends with _you_?”

Draco winces. He can’t help it. Can’t help the sting of her words aimed straight for the sensitive place in the back of his mind. _Bullseye_. And he hates that he doesn’t have an immediate, certain response. Instead, he says, “You and Father have always hated that I’ve had friends. _Real_ friends. Not just the shallow associates you tried to push on me.”

“Friends like Nott?” Narcissa hurls straight back. “Is _that_ the sort of friendship you have with Harry Potter, Draco? Is that why he is so willing to risk everything for you?”

“ _No_.” He knows perfectly well that he’s beet-red, humiliation buzzing loud in his ears. He’d almost forgotten that she knows – that they all know – amidst the chaos and _Scorpius Scorpius Scorpius_. That this is the reason they cut him away like a rotted bruise. He isn’t ashamed, Draco wants to tell her. Theo is one of the best things that has ever happened to him. Theo loves him. He loves Theo. The three of them together, the family Draco never believed he deserved. No matter what she says or thinks or the way she looks at him now.

It all sticks fast in his throat.

“Tell me about Scorpius,” he says instead. “Is he alright? Is he—” _Safe? Asking for me?_

“Scorpius is fine,” says Narcissa crisply. “And doing better every day.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means there is a lot of damage to be undone in that boy.”

Draco’s heart lurches. “Why? What happened? Has Father—”

“From you, Draco.”

As swift as a slap. He flinches, turning his face from her and closing his eyes.

_Scorpius._

All the elation and love when he looked to Draco, eager fingers signing, _Daddy!_ Bright, easy smiles and free and open in his affection and delight. Nothing to fear, nothing to make him hesitate. More happiness in that single little body than anyone Draco has ever met.

Scorpius clinging to him, hiding in his shoulder as curses flew around them. The two of them against the the world. The last thing Draco knew before _Stupefy_ hit him in the back.

“What are you doing to him?” he hears himself ask, the question dry and dreaded on his tongue.

His mother remains tight-lipped, refusing the answer.

Draco jerks forward, bound hands trying to reach her. “Please,” he says, begs. “ _Please_ don’t hurt him. Protect him. Promise me. Nothing else matters. Just don’t—Don’t let—” _Don’t do to him what you did to me_. _Don’t just stand by and watch._ “B-Because… Because nothing will change, you know. He will turn out just like me, and I know… I know you don’t want that. Please, Mother, do better with Scorpius. I-I know you care for him. Love him. Whatever Father’s motivation, or Astoria’s, I know _you_ were only acting out of concern. I know you want what’s best for him. Protect him. Not for me, just for him. Please.”

Narcissa remains perfectly still and perfectly silent, her expression perfectly inscrutable.

But she remembers.

Falling to her knees before Severus and begging him, _Protect Draco. He’s just a boy._ Just as Draco begs her now. He’s right, as loathe as she is to admit it. Let Lucius have full-reign over the boy and history will inevitably repeat itself. This is her chance to do better, to make up for all her failings with Draco.

And she tells him, meaning it, “I promise.”

 

*

 

 “Open your mouth.”

Fingers pry open his stubborn lips, the doctor’s nails uncomfortable between Scorpius’s clenched teeth. He glares at the doctor, and the doctor glares right back.

“The more quickly you comply,” he says, “the less uncomfortable this will be.”

Scorpius relaxes his jaw the smallest fraction, sees the smile on the doctor’s face, believing he’s won, then bites. _Hard_.

Behind him, the house-elf squeaks in time with the man’s yell.

That doctor is just one more in a long string of professionals charged with ‘working out what’s wrong with him’, and Scorpius is glad when the front door slams shut behind him. Even imagining the look his mother will give him when she finds out. Maybe even because of it. She will berate him, when she comes back and finds out, for wasting all their time. _‘Why won’t you just do it?’_ she’ll say, in that exasperated voice that’s been getting more and more annoyed with every person who’s come and gone. _‘Just speak. Just one word. And this will all be over.’_ Maybe she believes that, but Scorpius isn’t stupid. He knows that isn’t true. Just one word and maybe _this_ bit’ll be over, but it’d be the start of something else, and Scorpius has absolutely no desire to find out what that something is. One word would turn into another and another, and they’ll ask more and more of him, and then there’ll be _conversations_ , and Scorpius is sick of conversations.

There is only one thing he wants and already knows perfectly well that no amount of words will get it for him.

Something hard and hot bubbles up through his chest and into his throat.

Scorpius bites down on his lip nearly as hard as he bit that man’s finger.

_Daddy._

He’s stopped counting the days when they became more an infinite count-up than a hopeful count-down; when each day started with high expectation, and waiting waiting _waiting_ for his dad and Theo and Mr Potter to storm the Manor and save him from the baddies, just like when he and Al played Aurors and Death Eaters. That’s just what it was like, in the first days. Like one of their games. Bigger and scarier, but made better too by all those years of promises from his dad that they’d never be apart and _there’s nothing in this whole world that could keep me apart from you, you know that don’t you?_

Scorpius thought he knew. It had always been true before.

And then, slowly, somehow, it stopped.

Because it’s been days and days, and people keep coming to examine him and he hates it and he hates them, and his dad isn’t here. Hasn’t come.

No-one even speaks of him. Like he just doesn’t exist anymore.

Is that what happened?

_Stupefy!_

Just the memory makes him flinch, feels real all over again, and his dad falling, letting him go.

Scorpius doesn’t know what Stupefy means and doesn’t know how to ask.

_What if his dad’s dead?_

And that’s why he hasn’t come.

Can’t come if you’re dead.

Scorpius squeezes his eyes hard shut, every bit of him seizing up. 

Everything is still and silent in the nursery in the back of the house, too far away from anything or anyone to even hear murmurs or footsteps. No point even going sneaking around anymore. There’s no fun to be had and no-one he wants anything to do with.

He can still taste the man’s fingers, bitter like cloves.

“Scorpius Hyperion.”

Scorpius doesn’t open his eyes, even when the door shuts and he feels his grandfather coming towards him. He doesn’t want him here, therefore he’s just going to pretend he isn’t. It worked with his mother. She leaves him more or less alone now, busying herself with stuff for Aunt Daphne’s wedding, and his grandmother is out a lot, doing important stuff that makes her face look like a cloud, stuff she and Grandfather talk about in the lowest mumbliest whispers that even Scorpius struggles to spy on.

Grandfather is more stubborn than Mother. More stubborn than maybe anyone ever.

Not as stubborn as Scorpius though.

“I hear you sent away another one.” A creak that means he sat down on the chair nearest the fireplace. “I know why you’re being difficult, Scorpius. I know you’re upset.”

 _I hate you_ , Scorpius signs with sharp fingers in his lap, keeping his eyes squeezed up tight. _I hate you I hate you I hate you._

“Wouldn’t it be so much more satisfying if I could understand what you’re saying?”

Scorpius peeks through a squint.

His grandfather considers him with a tilted head and a mildly amused expression. He doesn’t know how he ever thought his grandfather looked anything like his dad. They’re completely one-hundred-percent different. Every bit about them.

Scorpius huffs through his nose and makes one of the signs Theo taught him that his grandfather _definitely_ knows.

The expression doesn’t change, just as it hasn’t changed since the moment he woke up in the Manor. Mother loses her temper quickly, as angry at Scorpius as he is at her, and Grandmother always makes her disappointment known. But Grandfather’s different. Grandfather’s patient. And it’s nearly difficult to remember that Everything Is His Fault. Scorpius _makes_ himself remember, even the bits that hurt more than he can stand. His dad’s fear any time Grandfather was even mentioned, and the bruise on his face from the night they ran away, and making Scorpius lie about Albus’s birthday, and when he’d turned up at the Day Care and the way he’d spoken to Miss Winters and Albus, and grabbing him from his dad, taking him away—

Scorpius signs again, teeth gritted so hard they grind, _I hate you!_ and _I want my dad_. Which are pretty much all he’s said since arriving. They’re stupid if they don’t know what those signs mean by now.

“I know there are things you want.” Grandfather leans forward, hands clasped on his knees, long hair loose and heavy over his shoulders. “Questions you want to ask. I know everything must be terribly confusing for you, Scorpius. It would help you so much if we could talk. We’re not doing it for us, you know. We’re not doing it to be unkind. We only want what’s best for you.” He shakes his head like he’s sad. “I can only imagine what your father has told you, and I know how easy it is to believe the person you love the most. But not everything your father says is true. Not even everything he _believes_ is true. I would like very much for you to make your own assessments, Scorpius. You’re an astute boy. I believe you capable of reaching your own conclusions. Given the opportunity. And the facts.” One corner of his mouth twists upwards, and there’s a glint in his eye when he says, “I’m not sure your father has given you much of either, has he?”

Scorpius hates that he can feel himself flushing. It isn’t true. His dad doesn’t lie. Never. Not to him. He keeps his promises always. Only tells the truth. _Except when he doesn’t_ , the snide little voice in the back of his head says. _Like the Dark Mark. Like Death Eater. All those secrets. All those lies._ Scorpius’s heart thudders beneath his shirt, sweat prickling across his skin. Because, even apart from everything else that didn’t really matter, the one thing that did was, _‘There is nothing – not a single thing in this whole world – that could ever keep me from you,’_ and that isn’t true anymore. A lie. His dad lied. To him.

The tears come in a wave that crashes through his whole body and knocks him down. It’s too big to stand, to bear, to make sense of, and it _hurts_ all over like it’s new.

“Scorpius,” he feels his grandfather murmur, gathering him up to hold him against his chest; fingers gentle in his hair. “I know it hurts and I know it’s hard. Let me help you. I am not your enemy.”

Against his will, Scorpius wants it.

Against his will, it feels true.

 

Lucius hasn’t held a child like this since Draco was very little – too little for the boy to ever recall. Scorpius is a heavy, warm weight against his chest, head tucked up beneath Lucius’s chin; relaxed despite is indomitable anger; desperate for contact – _any_ contact – even if the person he wants most isn’t here. This is how it should’ve been with Draco, Lucius realises, rocking his grandson in a slow, subtle motion. This is what he should’ve done after Severus left. How different it all might’ve been if only he’d tried to fill the hole instead of denying it completely. He knows, perfectly well, that it could never have been so. Father and grandfather are two different roles entirely and, even at that point, his relationship with Draco had been set fast in stone. He doubts Draco would’ve wanted it even if Lucius had tried.

It’s easier with this boy.

Despite their rocky start and Draco’s best efforts.

Scorpius hates him because he’s been told to. That is an easy fix, and easier still if Scorpius is this desperate this quickly. It won’t be long before his loyalty shifts.

The game, Lucius thinks, has been set up quite nicely. This child craves independence and Draco has crowded him. He can offer everything Scorpius wants and everything Draco was not willing to give.

Draco, as ever, will be his own undoing.

Lucius smiles and hums, the low, tuneless melody soothing the boy in his arms and, against Scorpius’s will, he relaxes.

 


	2. Cooperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Lucius Malfoy's complete disregard for house-elf life

Astoria drifts in a haze of winter wedding planning, letting the tide take her as it wishes. Everything is glorious and beautiful and perfect; her sister Daphne happier than she’s ever been – bright-eyed in excited anticipation for her approaching future. Astoria remembers those feelings well – all the glittering, dizzying moments spiriting towards her new life as a Malfoy.

It is hard not to be cynical.

She keeps her thoughts sealed and tries to lose herself in her sister’s fairy-tale.

Everything is glorious and beautiful and perfect, and there is no reason Daphne’s marriage shouldn’t stay that way too. Steven isn’t like Draco. No-one, she thinks bitterly, is like Draco. She could visit him in the London jail if she wanted to. Could go there and demand answers, and hold him accountable for all the damage he has wreaked on her life – the son who despises her, all but isolated in the Manor which had once seemed such a palace, closer to her parents-in-law who treat her like a little girl to be watched over, the name she had once idolized now just a relic of a relationship that should never have happened in the first place.

Astoria breathes out a tight, slow breath and forces a calm as she weaves tiny sparkling stones into the hem of her sister’s wedding gown.

She has been so focused on returning to normal, she had forgotten how hellish normal was.

It will be better, both Lucius and Narcissa kept telling her, once Scorpius has been retrieved and Draco can be forgotten.

Better for whom, Astoria would dearly like to know.

Not her. Certainly not Scorpius who has fought them tooth and nail from the moment he regained consciousness. Literally, at times. It had startled her in a way she had never thought to anticipate, his frantic, frenetic energy; a trapped butterfly, battering at his confines in single-minded desperation. He didn’t want to be there, with them, with her. Wordless though he was, he made his desires perfectly known. He wanted Draco _._ No-one and nothing but Draco. She knew that sign anywhere: _Daddy_. And every time his fingers moved in that motion, she heard it clear in her mind – her son’s screams as he clung to Draco, the hoarse voice that she’d almost forgotten as Lucius pulled him away.

The sound haunted her, in dreams and waking.

The word an accusation on his lips and on his fingertips.

_Hating her._

It was never exactly easy between them, Scorpius always making his preference for his father quite plain, but it had never been like this.

She had sat by his bed whilst he slept, that first afternoon when the effects of Stupefy were still wearing off, just taking him in, enjoying the peace, enjoying her son being home where he belonged after so long missing and wishing for him. Her heart was a nervous flutter in her chest, nervous in the way of finally getting something long longed for, though she thought nothing of it at the time. It was more excited anyway – she looked forward to reforging their broken relationship, to teaching Scorpius that she could love him and be there for him just as strongly as Draco ever was. She looked forward to the opportunity Draco’s presence had never permitted. The start of something new, something better. For both of them.

The child shifted in his sleep, limbs twisting beneath the covers, arms stretching out, then his eyes flickered and opened and saw her.

Astoria smiled down at her son, lips parted to say the first words of their new life together.

Scorpius’s whole expression darkened and twisted into unmistakable dislike.

And he turned away from her.

Every attempt she made at communication was met with staunch silence, and the knowledge he _could_ speak made it all the worse.

There was no denying now that his mutism was deliberate, his defiance personal.

Astoria left the room before she could do or say anything rash, suppressing her tears until the nursery door closed safe between them.

Alone in her sitting room, her grief tore through her in a furious flood, rattling her whole body until she felt like she was drowning. Even now, having got what she wanted and _won_ , it still wasn’t enough.

“It will take time,” Narcissa said when she found her. “These things always do. Scorpius is young enough to get through this, but it will take time.” One hand resting on Astoria’s shoulder, Narcissa sat down and gently drew her hands from her face. “I know what it is like, to believe your son hates you, and I cannot tell you with any certainty how long it will take for Scorpius to come around, but I do believe he will. He is young enough that all this will soon be forgotten, and he will learn that you are not the cause of his pain. But it _will_ take time.” She squeezed Astoria’s hand, their wedding rings clinking together. “Patience, Astoria. Do not let Draco hurt you through the boy. It is as little Scorpius’s fault as it is yours. Do not punish each other.”

Astoria had wiped her eyes and nodded as though she believed her mother-in-law. She did, really. There was no-one else to believe. It didn’t make it easier though. Every time her son looked at her – which was as little as the boy could manage – Astoria felt it right in the heart. She didn’t know how to speak to him, had no idea how to pretend it was all alright, just as Narcissa said, and she was full aware that she was as stiff and uncomfortable around Scorpius as he was with her.

It didn’t help that her parents-in-law found it so damn easy.

Scorpius rejected his grandparents just as thoroughly as he rejected her, but it was like they didn’t even notice; carrying on as though everything was just as it should be. Furious signs went ignored, his silence deemed irrelevant, and they maneuvered the boy effectively into place regardless of the fight put up. Like they had been through all this before. She hated how unfazed they were, and how Scorpius – slowly slowly – started to react to thus; easing barely perceptibly in their favour whilst every effort made by Astoria was countered with spitting hatred, as potent in the second week of his homecoming as that first day.

She had never felt more of a failure.

Astoria avoids him now – avoids them all, really – and spends most days at her parents’, busying herself with preparations for Daphne’s wedding. It’s only days away and there is so little left to do, but Astoria tackles it all with rigorous energy, only Apparating home when it’s late enough that Scorpius will certainly be in bed and she’s too tired to care.

She doesn’t think about how she will manage once the distraction of the wedding is behind her.

Doesn’t want to.

Astoria runs a light finger down the long length of the dress and watches it shimmer beneath her touch as though woven from starlight.    

_Glorious, beautiful, perfect._

“How’s it coming, Tori?”

Astoria laughs and rises, turning towards the closed door and her sister’s voice. Daphne has been increasingly desperate to see the dress, but Astoria has denied her even a glimpse until she can safely call it finished. She steps back to look at the gown in all its understated glory.

“Alright,” she says. “You can come in now.”

Astoria revels in Daphne’s giddiness, letting it fill her up and push out all else. It might not last after the wedding, but for now she will make the most of it.

“Oh,” Daphne breathes, hand extended without quite daring to touch. “It’s…more than I ever imagined.”

Astoria doesn’t tell her that she’s literally put everything she is into this dress. She doesn’t need to. It shows in every careful stitch, every perfect inch. She had been quite the seamstress when they were children, conjuring up bright costumes for their games and creating wonderous outfits for all the parties their parents let them tag along to. The hobby had faded a little during their school years, though had flourished briefly when the question of the Yule Ball had arisen. But Malfoys didn’t work. At least, not in that way. Astoria misses working with her hands, the satisfaction of a projection. Perhaps she will take it up again.

She helps Daphne carefully into the gown, wand between her teeth and ready to make the last alterations, though it fits her almost perfectly already. Daphne stands on the stool Astoria’s been crouched on for the last fortnight, and Astoria stoops to lower the hem down to her feet before letting it fall; the material both flowing and weighty at once. It glitters with every breath.

“I used a little of the same stones in the bridal party’s outfits too,” she says, thinking of her own dress, their father’s robes and their mother’s hat. “For a consistent effect.”

Daphne strains around to look at the train, flushed with unspeakable delight, and nods wordlessly.

Scorpius was supposed to be ring-bearer. Had been right from the beginning, when the engagement was announced two years ago, when Draco was supposed to be with her, and they would go together in a single unit. Astoria had got out his little set of dress-robes – identical in miniature to her father’s – with the intention of altering them more than once to fit the theme. Each time she had stuffed them straight back into the wardrobe, unable to stand the sight of them. She had imagined him, before, done up handsomely with that toothy grin of his, half-running down the aisle in her wake. Now when she pictures it, he is sullen and moody, if there at all.

“Tori?”

She blinks up at her sister. “Hmm?”

Daphne frowns down, then gathers up her skirts and steps from the stool to on the ground;dress spread around her like a flower.

“Still not good?” she says.

Astoria’s head dips. “I know it will take time,” she says in an echo of Narcissa. “I just—” A shudder courses through her. “I don’t know how to stop him from hating me.”

“Scorpius?”

She nods.

“I’m sure he doesn’t _hate_ you, Tori.”

Astoria gives a dry laugh. “You’ll see him at the wedding. Try and tell me then.”

“Have you taken him to see Draco since—”

“No. And I’m not going to. I know that would only make it worse. He mustn’t—Scorpius mustn’t have the option. It’s me or nothing. And maybe he’d rather nothing now, but eventually—” The trajectory is impossible to maintain. “It’s still very early,” she mutters. “It will be okay. I’m not worried. It’s just… a little harder than I’d anticipated.”

Daphne falls back on her elbows like they’re girls lying on the lawn. “I don’t envy you,” she says. Then, looking to Astoria, “You should bring him here for a bit. Let Mother and Father have a go at him. They’d soften him up in no time.”

“You think so?” It’s tempting. Her parents have always been pretty much strangers to Scorpius, but there’s no reason for that really. She can imagine him here. Can imagine him flourishing. Away from the Manor. Even Lucius and Narcissa were different here. “Maybe,” she says, wondering out loud. “I’ll speak to them.”

“ _Them?_ ” Daphne’s eyes roll in a derisive flick. “Why do you need to ask them?”

“It’s not a matter of _need_ , per se—”

“It’s got nothing to do with them. He’s your son.”

“I know that.” But the heat in her face betrays her. Astoria looks away and down. Though she’d _never_ admit it aloud, least of all to Daphne, Scorpius is a Malfoy first and foremost and, as hard and as quickly as she’s tried to learn, Astoria is all too aware that she is only a Malfoy by marriage. Inexperienced and underqualified, it’s too easy to defer to her parents-in-law who have done it all before.

“How much time have you actually spent with Scorp since getting him back?”

 _Five hours and thirty-two minutes precisely._ “I don’t know.”

“I thought you wanted him home?”

“I did! I do!”

But Daphne’s wearing _that_ look.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re his mother.”

“Thank you so much. I’d nearly forgotten.”

“Don’t _joke_.”

“Then stop needling me.”

“I’m just saying—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” says Astoria, glaring at her. “Don’t just say. Let me be. Let me work this out.”

“Fine.” Daphne holds up her hands in surrender. “Your life, your loss.”

 _Her loss_.

Astoria gives a thin smile and rises abruptly, brushing the fleck of thread from her skirt. “Come on,” she says with a brusque motion. “Get that off before you crease it too much.”

 

*

 

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” Scorpius hears his grandfather say all the way out in the hall.

Scorpius keeps his back pressed against the wall, a whole corner keeping him hidden and out of sight. He is supposed to be in the nursery, supposed to stay there until expressly told otherwise. That’s what his grandmother says. But he feels like he’s been stuck in there for actual ages, one person coming after another and he doesn’t want anything to do with any of them. He’s sick of people being lead in by Haddie the house-elf, come to poke him about and look in his mouth and ask him stupid questions they already know he’s not going to answer. It was like this a bit before, after he lost his voice. Everyone was worried like he was dying or something, and everyone came to try and fix him and none of them could. He’d hated it then, all the attention that only ended in disappointment, but at least his dad had been there then, holding him close, chin on the top of his head as the doctors peered down his throat with the lights at the end of their wands. Scorpius hadn’t bitten any fingers then, as uncomfortable as it was, because he was doing it for his dad. He wanted to be better and fixed for his dad.

He doesn’t care about being better or fixed for anyone else.

It hurts, his throat, whenever he tries to test it when he’s certain he’s alone and can’t be heard. It still doesn’t really work, and it feels like something broke out at the Ministry and stayed broken, so even though he _can_ talk if really really wanted to. But he doesn’t. Not to any of _them_ – his family _or_ the stupid specialists with their stupid wands.

And here’s another one.

Scorpius risks a peek around the corner, twisting the trailing sleeve of the orange jumper his house-elf keeps trying to steal.

His grandfather still somehow manages to look imposing even within the hugeness of the hall, whilst the new person looks like they’re shrinking beneath the chandelier. It’s a girl this time. A lady. She looks older than his grandmother, with grey hair twisted up and pinned beneath a big blue hat, wearing a dress-coat-cloak in the same colour. She has to look up to speak to Grandfather and her mouth’s moving, but she’s speaking too quietly to hear.

He _could_ sneak closer, but the risk might be too much, and the real big thing is getting out and getting home much more than listening in, and it’s the perfect time – with his mother and grandmother out, and his grandfather right there being distracted, and Haddie’s _really_ easy to escape from if you put the effort it, so it’s now or never.

Floo is out of the question – the fireplace being right there, plus the powder being locked up from last time – but Scorpius is fairly certain he knows the way off the property, and if he can get to the end of the garden and onto the road and makes his magic come, then the Knight Bus will definitely come and pick him up and take him home, and he can promise his dad will pay the fare on the other end. He should practice saying so though, so his voice doesn’t come out all weird and croaky. His grandfather ushers the lady into the room where guests always go to sit and drink tea on the uncomfiest settees in the house, and Scorpius estimates he has about twelve minutes before anyone realises he isn’t where he’s supposed to be. He’ll have to move quickly and be at least past the lake to have the best chance. Haddie is sneakier than the others, but Scorpius is sneakier than the other house-elves and won’t be underestimated.

As soon as the grownups’ backs are turned, Scorpius slips from his hiding place and darts across the long stretch of hall – the riskiest leg of the journey. He’s shoeless which helps, more sliding than stepping, and as soon as he hits the carpet of the hallway leading towards the back of the house with the comfier living rooms and his grandmother’s sun-room, he runs.

The doors outside are never locked unless there’s a special reason so, even though it’s stiff and heavy and takes all of Scorpius’s strength, he manages to pull open the backest door without much problem. There are house-elves in the greenhouses – Scorpius can see them through the big, misted-up windows – but they aren’t paying any attention to anything other than the vegetables they’ve been tasked with retrieving. That’s the good thing about house-elves, Scorpius thinks – carefully edging his way by – they only really think about one thing at once. As long as he doesn’t draw attention to himself, they’re no threat at all. Mostly. His dad doesn’t like house-elves, has always been weird about them, like they’re the enemy or something. He’s not mean, not like his grandmother can be – quick to hit if they don’t follow her orders immediately enough – and not sharp like his mother, but _weird_. Like he doesn’t trust them. Even though he was master when he was here and had the biggest power over them. Scorpius isn’t fond of them either, but that’s because everyone keeps sending them to watch him, and that’s just another added element to avoid. They weren’t spying on his dad.

Once he’s through the walled garden and out the little gate leading to the grounds, Scorpius grins. The world feels big again – just grass forever and ever, as far as he can see, except for the forest down that way left and the lake down that way forward. The way out is to the front though, and that means following the long windy road all the way down to the huge curly gates. Scorpius has never walked the road before, but it doesn’t take very long in a car. Maybe five minutes. If he runs, it should take maybe seven minutes and that’s more than enough time.

Scorpius starts to trot.

 

*

 

Her name is Jillian, and Lucius isn’t sure about her at all. She approached them of her own accord – apparently an acquaintance of one of the many failed professionals who have come and gone in the last week – without any credentials to speak of. No training, no recommendation. Just dogged self-belief that, for some reason, she will be able to succeed where all others have failed.

Grit has always impressed him. It is what made Lucius pause over her letter without discarding it out of hand. It is what invited her here for an interview. All against his better instincts, and Narcissa’s too.

They have been in this position before – desperate; willing to try anything – and it did not end well.

Lucius scrutinizes her from the opposite chair as she sips tea on the settee, trying to see anything he might otherwise have missed. She is innocuous – grey-haired, round-faced, staunch without being abrasive; confident without arrogance. He can imagine her with Scorpius, coaxing out the voice they all know is there. Gentler than the boy necessarily deserves, but it’s important to tread carefully in such instances.

And so it had been with Draco.

Lucius is terrified of making the same mistake twice. If there is one element of Draco’s childhood he could go back and alter, it would be William Southard.

Southard had sat where the woman sits now, a lanky man of little appeal with auburn hair and eyes the glinted behind small, rectangle glasses. He had been as she is: Innocuous. A last, desperate hope. Something different when all the normal routes had failed.

Lucius isn’t sure he wants ‘different’ again.

“I don’t have credentials,” says Jillian, “but I do have experience. Eight children and twenty grandchildren will do that. All of them different. I’ve seen it all. I’d’ve looked to use all I know at somewhere like Hogwarts, if I’d ever had a moment to myself in the last seventy-five years.”

“And now you have your moment?”

Jillian puffs up. “I raised them up well, Mr Malfoy. They don’t need me anymore.”

“Congratulations.”

“Not saying it’s easy,” she amends, catching the first hint of ice. “Takes practice. And skill. Not everyone’s got it, no matter what they try and tell you.” She inclines her head towards him. “You just had the one didn’t you? Chappie in the paper.”

At least she isn’t trying to play him.

“That is correct.”

“Well, that’ll be the problem right there. Not your fault. But it’s all about _practice._ And I’ve got that in spades. You name it, I’ve dealt with. And fixed it too, most likely.”

“I trust your… _friend_ informed you of my grandson’s difficulties?”

Jillian grins. “Showed me his finger. That was enough.”

Lucius suppresses a wince. “Scorpius has the potential to be the best of us,” he says, “but his upbringing thus far has been—” He looks for the word least likely to over-dramatize. “— _inconsistent_ , to say the least. He, like all children, is a sponge.”

She nods like she knows. “Needs wringing out a bit.”

“Reset, yes, and we think that an outside presence would have the best odds of success. Someone he doesn’t have a predisposition against. Too much has happened in too short a space of time, and that is rendering him incapable of seeing things—” _My way._ “—objectively. The biggest obstacle is his speech, or lack thereof. It is pure obstinacy. He _can_ talk, he simply refuses to. That needs to change. My son encouraged it, enjoying that it set Scorpius apart from the rest of us. Isolating him. Out of some sort of misplaced loyalty to his father, Scorpius continues his self-imposed mutism and refuses to communicate with us.”

“Tricky,” says Jillian, setting her cup down on the saucer with a light _chink_. “But not impossible.”

“Of course it isn’t impossible,” says Lucius curtly. “Nothing is impossible. I just—” A forced pause and he hates it, being caught in such a manner. He clears his throat. “It needs to be achieved _tactfully_.” He meets her eyes. “You understand.”

Jillian raises her chin. “I do.”  

Lucius smiles. “Excellent. Then perhaps we can make introductions now?”

He leads the way through the Manor, acutely and satisfyingly aware of how the house presents itself to strangers, an introduction all of its own. No matter who – Narcissa, Severus, Auror, staff – they have all reacted similarly to the imposing grandeur of the Manor, unable to control their wide eyes and open mouths the first time they were permitted inside. No doubt Astoria was the same. Lucius regrets missing it. Jillian trails behind, as awe-struck as anyone; staring up at the portraits who stare straight back, weighing her worth and inevitably finding her lacking. To them, no-one is worth of treading these hallowed halls, least of all the most recent members of the family. Lucius despises them all, has considered – more than once – taking down every single one of them and making a very satisfying bonfire, his father’s portrait crowning the pyre.

Malfoy Manor isn’t haunted, but it certainly would be if he dared follow through. Portraits are bad enough; ghost would be a whole other headache.

“Just through here.”

Lucius hasn’t spent much time in this part of the house, not since his own nursery days – so far off now, they barely exist in memory. He can count the instances he visited Draco here on one hand, always preferring to send for the boy instead, always better that their meetings were held on Lucius’s territory. Upper hand, and all that.

Scorpius is different.

There is no sound on the other side of the door, which in itself is not peculiar – after all, the boy is mute – but when Lucius pushes it open to admit them both it is immediately and conspicuously obvious that the nursery is empty.

He tries anyway. “Scorpius Hyperion?”

Nothing. Not even the presence of a hiding child.

“ _Haddie_.”

The elf assigned to Scorpius pops up instantly, already wringing its hands, already guilty, unable to look up from the ground.

“Where is my grandson?”

The elf mumbles something inaudible until a thwack to the side of the head makes it speak up. “Not sure, sir,” it squeaks. “Haven’t seen Master Scorpius since this morning.”

“You were ordered to watch him.”

“Master Scorpius is… Master Scorpius is…” It cringes when Lucius advances a step. “Slippery, sir.”

“ _Slippery_?”

It nods fervently backing up until Lucius grabs it by the collar of its filthy pillowcase.

“I’ll leave my details with you, Mr Malfoy,” he hears Jillian say behind him, audibly retreating.

Lucius drops the elf and turns to her. “You’re not leaving?”

“I…think it best if you let me know a time that suits you and the child.” Her eyes flick to the elf on the floor. “We’ll arrange a time and perhaps you can bring him to my home. A… neutral space usually helps in difficult situations.”

Lucius’s nostrils flare. “Fine. Fine. I’ll be in touch.” She’s obviously desperate to leave, and Lucius is suddenly desperate for her to be gone. This isn’t the impression he wanted to give. He forces a clipped, “Thank you for your time.” As soon as she’s gone, he rounds on the elf. “You have lost him too many times! He is a _child_. How difficult is it to keep him _in your sight_?” They are all worthless. Every single one of them. Ill-trained and undisciplined in his absence. It was never like this before the war. Unfortunately most of the old staff perished during the Dark Lord’s stay or were seized by the Ministry following his arrest. This new lot… Completely worthless.

“Come here.”

The elf hesitates, which does nothing to help its case. It’s the same hesitation that had them glancing to Draco for confirmation, rejecting Lucius as rightful Master. As though Draco could ever manage such a title himself. It’s so absurd as to be almost laughable.

It takes a single well-aimed blow to do away with the useless creature, the motion delivered so quick it certainly had no time to realise what was happening. Blood soaks into the pale carpet.

A snap of the fingers summons another, and it freezes at the sight of its fallen comrade.

“Clean it up,” Lucius snaps, turning on his heel. “Ensure there is no stain.”

 

*

 

The gate is much _much_ further than Scorpius had expected. It feels like he’s been walking for a week (he gave up running after about five minutes when a particularly nasty stitch in the side had him almost turning back) but he keeps going, following the endless wall of bushes as high as trees. The Manor is still big and looming behind him, like it’s following and never letting him get any further, but Scorpius grits his teeth against it and pushes on.

This is more important.

He has to get away and get home and find out what happened to his dad. Has to find Theo. Or even Mr Potter. And misses Albus so badly it’s like a big bruise in his chest. He just wants everything to back to how it was, though he has no idea why everything changed or how to stop it from changing again. That doesn’t matter. That can be worked out later. Once he’s home.

Home has never felt so tangible since his mother kidnapped him. It was always weird before – not really here or there – and even when his dad took him to the new house and it definitely felt home-ish, it was still not quite certain, but now it is. Home is the house, with his dad and Theo, and Albus down the street. This _isn’t_. And he doesn’t want to be here and they can’t make him stay so there.

And if no-one’s going to come and rescue him like they’re supposed to, he’ll bloody well rescue himself.

So there.

Easy peasy.

His hands are bundled up in the hanging sleeves of his orange sweater, but his fingers are still tingly with cold. His nose too, and his ears. He sucks his lip to keep his teeth from chattering and wishes he’s looked for a hat before he’d left. And shoes. That was a bit silly. It’s difficult to think of everything when there’s only one thing you really want.

The peacocks follow him in a long, curious train. Scorpius wonders if they’ll follow him off the estate and onto the bus, and how much peacocks have to pay to travel, and it would probably be more sensible to fly, though he’s never seen them fly, and maybe they can’t, like penguins can’t. He wonders if his dad will mind paying their fares too and where they’ll stay at the house. There’s no much room and there’re a lot of peacocks. Scorpius hopes there’re enough seats for them all. He’d hate to have to tell some of them to stay behind. 

“Scorpius?”

He freezes. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t noticed that he’d nearly reached the gate, or that his mother had just appeared through it.

The peacocks scatter.

Scorpius glares after them. _Traitors._

“What on earth are you doing? Where are your shoes?”

Like she thinks he’s _actually_ going to reply to her.

Scorpius rolls his eyes and turns, ready to run after the peacocks and – he guesses – back to the Manor to try again and other day.

A grab to the collar snags him.

“I asked you a question, Scorpius.”

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything concerning _her_.

“Who’s supposed to be watching you?”

Scorpius turns his glare up at her, and finds it reflected straight back down with his own brown eyes.

“For goodness sake,” Astoria mutters, and stoops to pick him up where he stands in soaked socks.

 _No!_ Scorpius squirms, sliding from her grasp, but she’s still got a good grip on his jumper. He feels a thread tear.

“Come on, we’ll sort this out back home.”

 _No!_ He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want her. He wants to be home – _real_ home – with his dad and Theo. He wriggles harder, kicking, flailing, fighting her just as hard as he fought at the Ministry. Not going to lose this time. “No!”

His mother tenses at the word and, in her surprise, she drops him.

Scorpius skitters back in the wet grass; the frozen dampness soaking up into his clothes. His voice is getting stronger and feels less cracked, but it still feels raspy in his throat and weird on his tongue.

Astoria stares at him – her eyes big and round – and doesn’t move, like maybe they’re both under a spell and if she breathes it’ll break. Scorpius feels it a bit too, though he’s breathless and panting and doesn’t know what to do now. He risks a glance behind her – the huge iron gate looming up out of the ground. There’s no latch, no hinge. You’ve got to go straight through it, one way or the other. And it only lets you past if you’re allowed. Cars too. It evaporates like smoke, though if you touch it, it feels just as real as anything.

“What did you say?” His mother’s breathy voice brings his attention back to her.

Scorpius bites his tongue. He hadn’t meant to speak – it’s the only card he has to play and he doesn’t want to waste it. Better to pretend he never did.

Astoria takes a step towards him, and Scorpius jumps up and hops back.

“Say it again,” she says, and there’s a _please_ unspoken in her voice. Nearly gentle. Nearly nice.

His eyes narrow.

He knows better than to trust her.

“Scorpius.” Suddenly she’s kneeling on the ground, skirts falling around her like leaves, and she’s looking at him so desperately she almost reminds him of his dad. She reaches for him without touching. “Scorpius,” she says again. “Please. Talk to me.”

It’s the same words he keeps hearing – from his grandmother and his grandfather, and all the people who’ve come and gone. _Talk. Speak. Please._ He’s heard it most often from his mother, but this time’s it’s different. It’s not snapped at him without expectation. It’s not even asked. _Please_ , she said. Meant.

Scorpius licks his lips, chapped from the cold.

He could. But he doesn’t know what he’d say to her.

Back in the before time, when he talked a lot, he still didn’t say much to her. He’d talk _at_ her, but it wasn’t like talking to his dad. She never listened so there was never much point in saying anything much. He had liked to talk – he remembers that – and he’d talk at her because otherwise it was like she forgot he was there at all. As long as she could hear him, she _had_ to remember he was there. It was different with his dad. It’s different now, too, with his mother. She’s looking at him – _right_ at him – and caring about his words.

And he doesn’t know what to say to her.

So Scorpius doesn’t say anything.

Hope gives way to disappointment, which in turn dwindles to frustration.

Astoria hisses through her teeth and rises sharply, going again for his arm and catching him this time, too startled to avoid her.

“Why do you think,” she says, pulling Scorpius along as she starts briskly back towards the Manor, “that anyone is going to indulge you in the slightest if you do not cooperate? You want your father, then _speak_ , Scorpius. It’s perfectly simple.”

She’s forced to a halt when he digs his bare heels in and, when she looks down, his eyes are enormous with expression; fingers moving in a familiar desperate shape, lips working to copy them. It takes several goes before he manages, “Daddy?”

Something small and hard like a stone drops into Astoria’s heart, rippling through her until her ears are ringing with the memory of the Ministry and Draco as he’d stared up at her and, _Astoria, please._

She turns her face away and pulls him on, feeling him trip and trot to keep up.

“You need to _try_ , Scorpius. You need to cooperate.”

 

*

 

_Draco Lucius Malfoy may not set wards around or within their dwelling. Draco Lucius Malfoy may not go within ten miles of the Malfoy residence, nor send anything or anyone in his stead, including but not limited to correspondence or acquaintance. Draco Lucius Malfoy may not approach any member of the Malfoy family, staff or representative. Draco Lucius Malfoy must submit immediately to further summons or questioning from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when required. Failure to comply **will** result in immediate and indefinite incarceration._

“Do you understand the conditions of your release?”

It feels like Draco’s mouth is suckered shut. He stares down at the contract laid out before him, detailing in no uncertain terms all that he may and may not do.

“Draco,” he hears Granger prompt, the quill sharp pushed between his fingers.

“Yes.” Then, “I understand.”

Across the table, Collette Luem smiles. She wears unadorned robes in a blue so dark it’s almost black; braided hair is coiled and pinned up at the back of her head, and her fingernails are painted in a subtle, shimmering copper. The polish glints as she reaches with one finger to tap the empty line at the bottom of the document and says, “Sign here, Draco.” Her voice is soft and familiar. They know each other well; she has represented the Malfoy family’s interests long before Draco was born, was a consistent presence in the Manor, growing up, as all her working hours were spent trying to keep Lucius Malfoy out of trouble.

She is the best. Of that, Draco has no doubt.

Even when the evidence was insurmountable after Voldemort’s return, she never gave up trying to twist the facts and the law. She might even have succeeded, if the Death Eaters hadn’t been sprung out so quickly. After the war, she worked closely with Narcissa, clearing her name and Draco’s, keeping them safe and blameless. No doubt she worked diligently behind the scenes too, another practiced hand in Lucius’s acquittal. Her purpose in life is to defend the interests of the Malfoy family.

And now she sits opposite Draco, with the smile he remembers so well, and taps again at his name written in careful, official script.

Draco heart sits heavy in his chest.

This is his last chance, would’ve known it was so even if it hadn’t been reiterated in both Granger’s voice and Luem’s. They will not come back here after today. Almost as though they’re working on the same side, pushing him to a promise he cannot make. Granger had returned early this morning, before she was strictly allowed, and told him everything – Potter’s plan, Theo’s thoughts, and her own determined, _You are useless just sitting here_ – before sitting back and adding, “I warned you I had no patience for time-wasters, Malfoy.”

There had been nothing to do, nothing to say apart from the smallest most reluctant, “Alright.”

Granger disappeared immediately to send off the appropriate correspondence, to Luem and Theo and Andrew. _He’s agreed to sign_. Personally, Draco thinks ‘agree’ is a bit strong. More like coerced into cooperation. He isn’t ready, isn’t prepared. Despite the hour wait for Luem, it has all happened too fast. And now he’s faced with it, the carefully crafted contract he can never get out of. No way around. No way to Scorpius. And what’s the point of being free if he cannot get to Scorpius.

 _“Harry needs you,”_ Granger had said. _“Though Merlin knows why. He says you have work to do and you need to get on with it.”_

Draco thinks about Suzie and Kate, and that night on the bench by the river, and all the good they had resolved to do. It was never going to be easy but they would try anyway. Against everything. Their mission had never been a whim, but it feels so small now. So pointless, which is far worse than impossible. And he’s so _angry_ at Potter, how is he supposed to face him, much less work with him? Draco would be perfectly content to let the Dementors have him if it meant never having to face Harry and Theo again.

But Draco knows that isn’t true.

Not really. Not at the root of it all. 

Even if it feels true.

 _“Play the long game,”_ had been Granger’s last murmured advice before Collette had rounded the corner to meet them. _“You haven’t lost yet.”_

Granger is the most honest person Draco knows, the only one with no cause to lie to him.

Draco takes a deep, juddering breath, and signs his name on the line.

 

*

Theo’s heart hasn’t stopped thuddering since the moment Potter had Floo’d into the living-room, brandishing Granger’s note with a breathless, “He’s getting out today. He’s signed.”

“Shit.” Theo pushes a hand through his hair and looked around, seeing their home from Draco’s perspective. It was so quick, so sudden, no time to tidy or get ready or prepare and the bed is a fucking mess and there’s a pile of dishes in the sink—

Potter follows his gaze, taking in the clutter. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’ll enlist the kids. James might take a bit of bribing, but Al’s been antsy ever since—well, you know. He’ll be glad to help. You just get down there.” Then, “Do you have his wand?”

Theo’s eyes land immediately on the coffee table with its useful drawer. “Yeah. Why?”

“They’re gonna… keep it,” he said, almost in an apology. “Hermione says it’s one of the conditions.”

“What the fuck? He’s not a fucking criminal!”

Potter spreads his hands like that explains everything away.

“This isn’t fair,” Theo mutters, stalking to the table and snatching out Draco’s wand. “This is all bullshit.”

“I don’t think anyone’s pretending it isn’t.”

“And that’s supposed to help is it?” He blows out a breath and shakes his head with a muttered, “Sorry. It’s just—”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “I get it.”

“So I just, what? Hand over the wand and get Draco back?”

“More or less, I think. That’s what happened when they released me. Though they already had my wand. There’ll probably be someone round later or tomorrow to make sure you don’t have any wards up or secret wand stashes or anything like that.”

They share an eyeroll.

“I know,” says Harry. “I know it’s bullshit.”

Theo gives a dry laugh and starts towards his coat hanging up by the door. “You know, I’ve spent pretty much every moment of the last few weeks wanting Draco back, wishing he’d pick himself up and get himself out of there, but I didn’t think for a moment about what would happen once he came home.”

“You worried?”

Theo takes his time with that answer. Worried was the wrong word. At least, not about Draco. Not really. It is bigger than that. “What do I do,” he says, testing the question slowly, “if Draco tries to—”

“He can’t,” says Harry at once. “He mustn’t.”

“Yes, I know that, exactly. So what do I do?”

“You bloody stop him, Nott, that’s what you do!”

Theo stares back at him. “It’s on me, isn’t it?” he breathes. “To keep Draco away from Scorp.” And, when Harry gives the most reluctant, most apologetic nod, “ _Fuck_.”

“He’ll see sense. Eventually.”

“ _Eventually_. But how the hell am I supposed to get to that point?

“It’ll be fine,” says Potter in that spectacularly unconvincing way of his which no doubt worked _wonder_ of the gullible Gryffindors but does nothing to sooth a Slytherin’s soul. “You’re not alone, we’re literally just down the road. And—” He gives a brittle laugh. “—It’s not like I have anything else to do at the moment, right? I can distract him, no problem. We’ll tag-team it. No problem.”

“No problem,” Theo echoes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited to see y'all come back for the sequel <3 It's exploded in my head, and I'm pumped to share it!


	3. Refocus

They wait for Draco in the lobby; Theo with fingers drumming a restless tune on the counter as Pansy and Blaise flank him, steady pillars at his side. The money and the wand have been handed over and now it’s simply a matter of waiting. It feels endless , though the clock on the wall tell him they’ve been there less than five minutes, most of which consisted of paperwork and promises. Potter’s back at the house, wrangling it into some semblance of order. There’s plenty of time to do so. They’ll take Muggle-transport back to Newham. Three changes on the tube, according to Blaise who knows these things. There are no plans beyond that. Theo doesn’t dare plan. It’s all too fragile. Too risky. One moment at a time and no more.

No-one speaks as Draco is lead through the door on the other side of the desk – not Draco, nor the guard, nor any of the three of them. Draco doesn’t acknowledge them, just presents his wrists to be unbound and steps to the other side of the counter, looking anywhere but at them.

Theo is too stunned for words. The others too, probably. 

Draco looks like crap and holds himself steady to the point of rigid; so brittle it would take a tap to shatter him. His face is gaunt and his eyes unseeing. Theo is reminded abruptly, _horribly_ , of the state of Draco after Snape  rescued him from the Manor during Voldemort’s rein – existing but barely, present but reluctantly; missing crucial pieces of himself that might never be reclaimed.

It is Pansy who regains her composure first. She bridges the gap, leaning to kiss Draco’s cheek and squeeze his hand. _We’re here_ , she says without words. _Just as we always have been. Just as we always will be._ It’s enough to bring focus to Draco’s eyes, and his first tenuous smile is for her. The second is for Blaise at a reassuring grip to the shoulder. He doesn’t look at Theo, folding his arms and angling deliberately away before Theo can even step towards him. 

“Are you hungry?” Pansy asks, breaking the awful silence. “We could get lunch. You look like you haven’t touched food since—”

“I’m fine.”

Blaise tries. “Want to get back and wash up a bit?”

“I’m tired.”

“You should go home and rest,” says Pansy. “Blaise and I will—”

“No,” says Draco. “Come too. I—I’d rather not be alone.”

“Of course.” Pansy’s eyes flick briefly to meet Theo’s, deep with the uncertain concern thuddering through his own blood. She threads her arm through Draco’s and they walk out as they did as school, in conspiring closeness, leaving Blaise and Theo to follow at their own leisure.

Theo dearly wants a drink. Two. Whisky, preferably.

“Come on, Nott.” Blaise catches Theo’s arm in the same manner Pansy took Draco’s, steering him onwards and out.

 

*

 

“Is Scorp coming back too?”

Albus has been holding onto the question for ages – ever since his dad came home to ‘rally the troops’ which actually meant bribe him and James and Lily into cleaning up the house up the road before Theo and Mr Malfoy came home. He’s picked up at least ten socks and found four mugs in varying states of decay, and had been about to start on putting away the knives and forks and spoons drying on the dish-rack, but he’d figured it was now or never and he wasn’t going to get any braver so he might as well ask now.

The look on his dad’s face makes him wish he hadn’t.

He sees before he hears the apology. “I’m sorry, Al.”

A few months ago when he was five, he’d’ve let all the hot, heavy anger burst out of him in a really good foot-stomp and a loud wail to express exactly how unfair that was. But he’s six now, and that makes a difference. Not stomping his foot or wailing doesn’t make the hot, heavy anger go away though. If anything, it only grows harder and sharper inside of him until it pushes out of his hands and sets them clenching into fists.

His dad reaches for him. “I know this is hard—”

Albus steps back. The thought of being touched and babied and _lied_ to is unbearable. Because that’s what would happen. His dad would say, _‘It’s okay_ ,’ when obviously it isn’t and it isn’t going to be until Scorpius comes home which is never. Maybe that sort of thing would help Lily because she’s still a baby and will believe anything, and will probably forget all about it by the time the promise becomes a lie, but Albus is six now and he isn’t stupid and he deserves the truth.

He scowls at his dad’s shoes, shoulders so rigid he feels like ice, and makes himself say, “Is Scorp ever coming back?”

“Of course he is.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, kiddo.”

“Why not?”

“Why don’t I know?”

Albus nods, still not looking up, and hears his dad sigh; feels him shift and turn away. “One thing at a time, Al.” 

Which doesn’t mean anything. 

Albus pursues Harry through the house, nearly just like theirs except completely different. “Why is it taking so long?” he demands, trotting to keep up and Harry swings up the staircase. “You got Mr Malfoy back. Why not Scorp? Why aren’t you doing anything? Why—” He freezes when his dad rounds on him, half way to the third step. He expects anger, or at least irritation, knows perfectly well that he’s pushing his luck. But his dad just looks worn out.

Sounds it too when he says, “It’s complicated.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means—” Fingers shove through thick, black hair sends it up at a thousand angles, just the same way as Albus and James’s hair does. Harry sighs and looks down at him, their eyes meeting properly for the first time in ages. “It means,” he says, “that I don’t know. I have no answer for you. I wish I did, Al, believe me. And believe that we’re all of us doing our best.”

Albus does not believe that. Not for one stupid moment. If any of the grownups were really doing their actual best, Scorpius would be _here_ . More to the point he’d never’ve gone in the first place. It all happened _because_ they weren’t doing their best.

He has replayed that afternoon over and over so many times in his head, he can remember every single awful detail — how everything had been exciting and _the best,_ because they’d convinced the grownups to let Scorp come back to Miss Winters’s, even though Scorp’s dad had been worried it was still too dangerous, but he’d let Scorp go anyway which meant it couldn’t be _that_ dangerous, and they’d all promised that it would be safe and that if anything went wrong, Albus’s dad could be there in a sec, and Theo too, and it would all be fine. 

That was how it was supposed to’ve been.

But that wasn’t how it went.

Not even a bit.

They were both too late, his dad and Theo.

Mr Malfoy was there — Albus remembers hearing him shouting Scorpius’s name all the way across the Atrium — but he shouldn’t’ve been and maybe his being there had made it worse. It was like every single little bit made it worse. No-one did anything. No-one helped. And then, when his dad and Theo finally appeared, they just gave up. No fighting or arguing or anything. No putting things back together. Just leaving them broken. 

 _‘Go on,’_ his dad had said, pushing him towards Theo when the old man in the Auror’s cloak pointed his wand at him. _‘Tell your mum it’s going to be okay.’_

 _Lie,_ he meant. 

Albus is six and not stupid, even if they all still treat him like he’s five. 

He searches his dad’s face, sees all the hope reflected back in the green eyes they share; his dad needing him to go along with it and pretend to believe it still. 

Albus takes a deep breath.

Scorpius isn’t coming home today, whether he fights or not.

So, for his dad’s sake, Albus nods and says, “Yeah. I know.”

Harry’s smile, all love and relief, makes the lie nearly worth it. He comes back down two steps and smooths back Albus’s hair with the same hand he just raked through his own. “As soon as I know, you’ll know. I promise.”

Albus doesn’t believe Harry, not for half a second.

 

*

 

The journey home is long and silent. Draco refuses to acknowledge the discomfort , or notice the glances shared between his friends. He will not break the silence for their sake, not when there is nothing to say. Speaking his mind would only make it worse, and Draco is too tired for the inevitable fight. It will come, he knows it, is certain the others know it too, but not today.

He wants to keep today as simple as possible.

Get out, get home.

There’s no room inside him for anything else.

Blaise navigates the four of them through the complex web of the London Underground, deftly procuring Oyster Cards and carriages with seats, squeezed between walls of Muggles, all with places to be and lives of their own; entirely ignorant of the intruders into their world. Blaise, Pansy and Theo all stash their wands surreptitiously, automatically and, for the first time the loss of his own stings Draco. It’s been three weeks since he left his downstairs on the newly-built coffee-table. There hadn’t been time to grab for it that fateful afternoon. It hadn’t even crossed his mind amidst the panicked repetition of _Scorpius I have to get to Scorpius_ reverberating through his head the moment that smirk curled his father’s lips.

How different that afternoon might’ve gone had he taken a moment to pick up his wand.

Draco’s fingers twist in his lap as he stares out of the window into the darkness of the underground, waiting for the flash of sudden light and tiled colours of the next station, and the next and the next; looking anywhere but at Blaise and Pansy sitting opposite or Theo beside him. Trying not to think about Theo at all or what will happen after everyone else has left and it’s just the two of them left in their new home.

He fidgets faster, bitten nails jagged in his skin.

It’s never felt like this with Theo before, Theo whose presence has never been anything but a warm relief even at their worst and Draco has wound himself up so tightly with the certainty that they’re bad for each other it feels insurmountable. It never was before, but by Merlin it feels that way now.

They will have to talk about it, about all of it, at some point soon.

Draco dreads it nearly as much as the Scorpius-less house they are returning to.

_What would happen if he ran?_

Following Pansy’s lead up the crowded stairs into the world above, Draco squints in the sunlight. He barely knows where he is, much less how to get to Wiltshire wandless. And they would stop him in a heart-beat. For his own good, for the bigger picture. They don’t understand. Have no idea at all—

“This way.”

He could wheel now,  sprint back down into the station and jump on a train — any train, anything that would put distance between him and them and give him time to _think_ — and just _go—_

“Draco?”

He withdraws immediately from the touch, though he pays no attention to whom it belonged. It doesn’t matter. They’re all unforgivably culpable. They don’t even know it. Draco stares at the backs of Pansy and Blaise’s heads. Neither have ever been able to understand what it’s like to love someone so much more infinitely than yourself, to have someone depend on you, someone a thousand times more important, who you’d give yourself up for without thought or hesitation. He’d thought Theo understood, even felt it a little himself. Had always purported to, anyway. He’d thought Theo loved Scorpius as if he were his own, as much as Draco. Theo always acted like he did, said he did, made Draco believe it so.

He should’ve known it wasn’t true.

 

The walk from the Upton Park Station to Olive Road is little over ten minutes but it feels endless as the crowds dwindle and dissipate; everyone taking their own routes to their own lives and leaving the four Slytherins alone on the street. As they approach, Theo leaves Draco’s side, fumbling in his pocket for a sparsely hung key-chain bearing a single key. He struggles with the door — they so rarely ever need to leave by it, Floo being far more convenient — and lets them in.

Or, at least, lets Pansy and Blaise in.

Draco falters in the porch, frozen.

Past the expectant faces looking back at him, the house is all as he left it — crisp and clean and new; the smell of cardboard and sawdust still lingering in the air. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the coffee table Theo had put together, bright orange-red blooms that must’ve been a beast to acquire at this time of year. Fire-flowers. Draco’s favourite. A fire in the hearth and books on the shelves, sparse though they are. His own coat hanging by the door alongside — Draco’s heart gives a sickening twist — Scorpius’s little jacket.

 _I can’t do this_.

Parts his lips to say so.

This was supposed to be their home, their sanctuary. It is nothing short of a mockery now.

“Go and put the kettle on,” he hears Pansy order, watches Theo disappear to obey and Blaise go after him. Steps back when she comes towards him, one hand extended to him. “Come on. Come inside”

“I can’t,” he tells her.

She says, “You can.” Then, “You have to.” She means it. Draco can see it in every line of her body, urging him to try, _please_ , for them, they who love him the most. Pansy casts a brief glance behind her then steps back out into the cold, shutting the door behind her. A quick dip into the pocket of her long coat and she offers him the tortoiseshell case.

“I don’t—”

“I know,” she says, taking one of the gold-tipped cigarettes for herself. “But sometimes the occasion calls for it.”

It is true, and this isn’t the first time they have sat huddled up together, sharing a smoke. Draco can count the times on a single hand, but each one was poignant and remains memorable.

 _‘Come on,’_ she’d said, grabbing his hand and pulling him down to the Black Lake, to the spot which became their own. There, sitting in the grass, huddled up together in their school cloaks, she had offered him a cigarette. “Claire’s,” she said by way of explanation. “I let her hide them in my room. Daddy would kill her if he found out.”

They both agreed that smoking was vile — the harsh smoke hitting them simultaneously in the back of their throats and sending them into choked spasms. Though after a minute, not wanting to waste the illicit bounty just because it was disgusting, they also agreed that the effect was quite pleasant.

“Go on then,” she said, nudging his shoulder with hers. “What the matter?”

Ice patches glittered on the lake. “Why does anything have to be the matter? Everything’s great. Better than great.” He could feel her eyes boring into him in that all-seeing, all-knowing way of hers. Draco shifted, drawing tentatively and holding his mouthful of smoke a fraction too long. “This really is disgusting, Pans. I don’t know how your sister can—”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I wasn’t aware we were on a subject in the first place.”

It didn’t fly. Just as he knew it wouldn’t.

Draco rolled his eyes and fell back in the grass, face up towards  rolling clouds. “What if I ruin it?” The question had been turning over and over in his head from the moment Theo kissed him at the Yule Ball — three whole weeks ago. And, like a snowball, had grown larger and denser as it gained momentum. It was a stupid worry, he knew that perfectly well, but somehow that only seemed to make it worse. _What if he ruined it?_ What if he lost Theo not only as a boyfriend but a _best_ friend? Though Draco was as far from experienced as it was possible to be, this was his fourth year living at Hogwarts, surrounded by teenagers in various degrees of courtship. He’d witnessed the highs and the lows from a safe, impersonal vantage, but now, suddenly, he was living it. And it was _terrifying_.

Draco looked up at Pansy as she looked down at him, waiting for her to laugh.

She didn’t. Merely tilted her head and asked, “Why would you?”

Which was a damn good question.

“He told me he loved me.”

“Did you say it back?”

“Yes…”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

Draco had repeated those words back to her in a gentle tease during their fourth cigarette, eight years later, caused this time by Andrew Davinport. Pansy had fled from his earnest proposal straight to Malfoy Manor, to Draco who assumed by her ashen face and shaking fingers than something terrible had happened.

They hid in the rose garden, shielded from interruption by Narcissa’s verdant bushes; Scorpius at that moment occupied with chasing the peacocks through the  labyrinth they created, little hands ineffectually grabbing for tail-feathers.

Pansy watched him with tangible dread, the ghost of her future in the child.

They shared the cigarette on that occasion.

“Andrew is a good man,” Draco reminded her gently, passing it back to her. “He will look after you.”

“I know.” Then, after a long stretch of smoke-filled silence, “Why does that make me feel worse, Draco?”

“Fear of the unknown?”

She gave a breathy laugh. “I should’ve taken Blaise up on his offer. A ring on my finger would’ve put a stop to all of this.”

“Blaise isn’t what you want, Pans. Not at the end of the day.”

An eyebrow twitched. “You know what I want, do you?”

“Perhaps,” said Draco. “Eventually. I know you’re having fun running around with Blaise, and perhaps marrying him would put an end to some of your… _complications_ , but I can’t imagine that being anything but temporary.”

Pansy angled away. “Maybe temporary is what I want.”

Draco let her sit on that one until their reflective silence was broken by a shrill squawk from beyond the Golden Celebrations. He returned to their bench with triumphant Scorpius and a stolen peacock feather.

Pansy eyed the boy warily. “He only wants me for heirs.”

“Are you sure about that?” Draco bounced Scorpius lightly on his knee and trying to keep the feather out of his son’s mouth. “From what I’ve heard, his feelings are genuine. He really cares for you.”

She made a derisive sound and unclipped her case once more, but this time Draco said, “Don’t. Please.” And looked meaningfully at Scorpius who, in turn, stared at the shiny case with a hungry look in his eyes. Pansy put it back in her handbag.

“You could do far worse than Andrew Davinport, even if children are part of the deal. And would that really be so terrible?”

This inspired a look of such pure derision, Draco winced. _Cauldron kettle,_ it said. Because, of course, their third cigarette had been this scenario almost word for word, with Astoria newly in the picture and Draco’s future as a husband and father looming fast; each as unwelcome and inescapable as the other.

He had just parted ways with Theo after making himself get _that_ over and done with. Theo hadn’t been angry, just resigned, and Draco found himself leaving the Leaky Cauldron almost disappointed. He’d expected outrage and anger, and insistence that Draco shouldn’t stand for this blatant shoehorning. _Come away with me_ , he remembered Theo insisting all the way back just after the war. Draco had refused him then, would no doubt refuse him again, but _damn_ he’d wanted to hear it. To have confirmation that Theo had given up too—

“Daphne was alright, I suppose,” Pansy mused. “I don’t remember much of the sister. Have you met her yet?”

Draco nodded miserably. “She and her parents visited the Manor yesterday. To make it all… _official_.”

“And?”

“And what? She’s… fine, I suppose.”

“Better than not fine,” Pansy suggested, lighting two cigarettes and passing one over. Draco took it more quickly than he usually did, craving the discomforting relief and the distraction at the back of his throat. “It could be much worse,” she continued in the absence of Draco’s response. “Your mother could’ve picked a real toad, like Millicent or—”

“Whatever you might say about my mother,” said Draco tersely, “appearances are a priority.” He blew out a steady stream. “She would never consider Millicent. No, Astoria is very pretty, very sweet. I’m sure Mother has an extensive, impeccably organized list somewhere and Astoria’s name came out on top. She’s perfect.”

“But you don’t want her.”

“I don’t want anyone.”

“What about—”

“Theo isn’t an option,” Draco snapped, heat flushing his face. “And anyway, even if I wasn’t certain Mother would murder me, Theo… It’s been too long, Pans. I’ve run out of chances. It was a— a teenage fling. Nothing more. Certainly nothing sustainable.”

He had been right, Draco thinks now, letting Pansy push a lit cigarette between his fingers. As sweet as the thought had been, as close as the possibility had come, it was never going to be real. Should’ve left it alone. Should’ve stayed at the Manor and done as he was told.

“Talk to me,” says Pansy.

They sit shoulder to shoulder on the porch-step, easily visible either from the window behind or the street in front. There is no real need to hide here, their privacy respected in this the fifth of a handful.

“If you had a daughter,” says Draco after a long while, “and your father took her away from you, what would you do?”

“My father is dead and, even so, I would never risk having children,” is Pansy’s even response. “This world will never be safe.”

“I thought I could make it so. Even just for him. I thought I could protect him.”

He feels Pansy’s side-long assessment. “You did your best.” As though it’s over now.

Draco smokes. “Snape did his best. It was never enough.”

Her shock is tangible. He feels a little of it himself, has never really let himself think it much less say so out loud before. The memory of his godfather remains painful and sanctified, both of which are very good reasons not to touch it. But alone in the station, faced with his thoughts and the inescapable reality of his powerlessness, Draco couldn’t help it. The parallels drew themselves in stark, unavoidable lines.

“I won’t leave him there, Pansy. You can’t expect me to.”

She finds his fingers with her own and squeezes.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to stop worrying?” Draco asks. “To be sensible and play ‘the long game’, as Granger’s so fond of calling it?”

“Do I need to?” Pansy returns. “Or do you already know it?”

Draco pulls his hand back. “I know my parents. I know Scorpius.”

“You really think they’ll treat him the way they treated you?”

A shiver thudders through him. The cigarette slips and sizzles in the ice at their feet.

“Yes,” says Draco. “I do. I know my parents and I know Scorpius. Tell me you don’t think the same.”

Pansy presses her lips in a thin line, neither looking at him nor answering. Confirmation enough.

It isn’t what he wants.

 _Tell me I’m wrong,_ he wants to beg. _Tell me I’m being paranoid. That they’ve changed. That they’ll be different with him. Tell me it was my problem, not theirs. Not Scorpius’s._

But Pansy doesn’t say anything.

She knows Draco’s parents too.

They fought a war to keep change at bay. One young heir is much the same as another.

“I-I can’t just… _sit_ here a-and let them—” He is on his feet before he knows it, looking wildly about, up and down the street as though that would determine the way to Wiltshire; heart hammering , ordering him on, because to hell with them all — Theo and Potter and Granger — and none of them have a damn clue, have _never_ had a damn clue if they think there is any chance, any _way_ he would ever let— “I have to go to him. I have to bring him home.”

“They will get to you long before you get to him, Draco,” she says, rising and reaching for him; drawing him gentle and close. “That is the only reason any of us are arguing this point. It would be futile to even try. You are no good to Scorpius in Azkaban. Why can’t you understand that?”

Draco grimaces, burying his face in her shoulder and holding on. “I do,” he mumbles. “But Scorpius won’t. All he’ll know is that I’m not there and I’m not trying.”

“That isn’t true—”

“It doesn’t matter! It’s what he’ll believe. A-And perhaps… Perhaps if I went against the conditions, if I was sent to Azkaban, perhaps at least then he’d know I tried—”

Pansy pulls back, her glare the fiercest she’s ever turned on him. “That,” she says in a biting hiss, “is the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

“I don’t expect _you_ to understand,” he snaps back at her before he can stop himself.

She freezes.

“What I mean is—”

“Why,” says Pansy icily, “would I ever want to understand? After seeing the hell that parenthood has put _you_ through?” She gives a low, bitter chuckle, shaking her head. He sees her fingers tremble as she goes again for the cigarette case. It rattles, the clasp refusing to give.

“Here.” Draco stills her hands with his own, helping her. “I truly believe,” he murmurs, plucking one of the slender cigarettes and offering it to her, “that any child would be lucky to have you. Your father is dead, there can be no acquittal for him. It won’t be like—”

“My father isn’t the only bastard in the world, Draco.”

“Andrew is a good man. A _kind_ man. He would never—”

“You can’t promise me that.”

This silences him. Then, on a sigh, “I know.”

Because it is never expected, even when it should be.

 _I should’ve known,_ he remembers Pansy’s whispered confession through tears she was unwilling to shed even then. _I just didn’t think he’d ever… want me._

Claire Parkinson’s funeral was a week to the day after her wedding in the early spring of Ninety-Six. Draco, along with his parents, had attended the wedding but the funeral was a small, private affair. Family only. Though she had never been particularly close with any of her sisters, Pansy had received the news behind the closed door of Snape’s office in numbed shock, not saying a word to any of them before leaving for her Cheshire home.

No-one knew what had happened, and when Pansy returned to school, she was silent.

They had never seen her like that before, eyes down and tight-lipped, and the three of them were at a loss to know what to do. This was not Pansy as they had known her for ten years. This wasn’t even Pansy grieving, because they’d witnessed that before when her mother had passed a year previously. This was something else.

The three of them watched her cautiously, unwilling to pry yet unwilling to pretend that all was as it should be when quite clearly it was not.

It was Draco who figured it out first, quite abruptly with a sharp pang to the chest.

It was mid-afternoon on a Wednesday and they had just got out of Transfiguration and were on their way down to Potions when he grabbed her hand and pulled her into one of the few corridors he knew to be private.

“Tell me,” he ordered quietly, holding both her hands tight in his. “What did he do to you?”

Pansy glared up at him, nostrils flaring in ready outrage at the very notion that she’d ever allow anyone to—

But then her lip went between her teeth and her head fell onto his chest as her whole body spasmed against the tears she had been desperately resisting.

Draco held her tight.

“Claire killed herself,” he heard her say into his shirt. “She was pregnant. It was—” But she couldn’t say it. She didn’t need to. Just clung tight to Draco. “He’d been… doing it ever since Mummy fell ill. For years. She let him. To keep him away from us. She thought, when she got married, it would be over. But she was pregnant. I always thought he loved her best. More than me. I hated her for it.” Pansy gave a bitter laugh. “I was jealous of her. Of his attention. And even when… I know he was thinking of her. I know he thought I was…her.”

Draco held them both perfectly still for as long as he could, not moving, not speaking. It was what she needed.

“I didn’t think it would be like that. That’s not what people talk about. That’s not how it was supposed to be. It’s not supposed to be…ugly, like that. That’s not what I wanted. That’s not what I wanted!” Bitter fury rushed out through her tears, her fingers like claws digging into him, holding on for dear life. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “You’re not to tell anyone.”

“Pansy, you have to visit Pomfrey.”

She pulled back abruptly and glared at him. “What did I just say?”

“You needn’t tell her the truth. I’ll go with you. I’ll say it was me.”

“No-one would ever believe it was _you_.”

“Darling, everyone already believe it’s me.”

The first quirk of a smile lifted Pansy’s lips. It was a useful ploy, that little rumor, that Draco had been using to his advantage ever since Theo had gone from Theo to _Theo_.

“You might as well get some use out of it too,” he said, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “And anyway…” He faltered, the gravity of his friend’s situation _hurting_ as he told her, “You’re not alone, Pans. Never think that you are. I won’t have you— Not like your sister. I won’t lose you.”

Pansy allowed him to pull her through the castle’s corridors, thankfully empty of all but the most wayward of student, and up to the Hospital Wing where Madam Pomfrey gave them both a very significant look.

Draco flashed his most beguiling smile. “Got a bit carried away,” he said. “You know how teenagers are.”

The lecture and the test were both administered posthaste. “This is inappropriate, Mr Malfoy, Miss Parkinson. This is _not_ how Hogwarts students conduct themselves. Especially Hogwarts _prefects_ who are expected to be an example—” _Et cetera, et cetera, et cetrera._ Draco held Pansy’s hand as Pomfrey droned on, waiting for the test to come back. The words were irrelevant, and all three of them knew it.

“Come and stay with me at Easter,” he murmured in the brief interval between the end of the lecture and the results. “Don’t go back. You don’t have to. You can stay at the Manor as long as you like.”

Pansy didn’t say anything, too transfixed by the present to give any thought to the future, even the immediate one.

“What were you _thinking_ ?” Snape snapped, because of course he was informed and of course he was obliged to have this _conversation_ with his students.

Draco shrugged. “We weren’t thinking. Hormones, you know—”

“Do not be flippant with me, Mr Malfoy. I expect better from you. From _both_ of you.”

Something sparked inside Draco. He met his godfather’s gaze steadily, “Do you really expect it from _us_ at all?” he asked with enough emphasis to stop Snape on the cusp of a pointless tirade.

Snape’s jaw tightened and he slowly lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the desk, leaving Draco and Pansy standing before him. “You lied,” he said.

“Congratulations.”

“ _Draco_.”

“Well, really.”

“Your parents,” said Snape through very gritted teeth, “will be informed. You both know that, I presume? Were aware of the consequences of your actions when you chose this particular method of truancy?”

“Truancy?” Draco laughed. “Is that what you think this is? Didn’t fancy Potions this afternoon, so let’s go and pretend to have a pregnancy scare?”

Snape looked like he was dearly regretting every life choice that had lead him up to that moment.

Draco had no sympathy left for anyone, least of all his Head of House. He raised his voice, “Do you know what happened to Claire?’

“Draco—”

He ignored Pansy’s voice, his name on her lips a warning.

“Do you know how she died?”

Snape gave him warning glance before addressing Pansy more gently, “You know how sorry I was to hear about your sister, Miss Parkinson.”

“Tell Snape what happened. Tell him why she died.”

Draco held Snape’s gaze furiously, determinedly, not realising how angry he was until his own breath caught in his throat, conveying without words everything Pansy could not say.

“Pansy,” said Snape eventually, “you know my door is open. If you ever need— _Enough,_ Draco,” when Draco had been unable to contain a bark of bitter laughter. “If you have something to say, have the decency to speak plainly.”

“What good is an open door when you won’t do anything to help us?”

The faintest pink tinged Snape’s face, then he addressed Pansy. “Miss Parkinson, anything within the realms of possibility, I will help you. You have my word. My door is open to you.”

“Can I go now?” Pansy asked, and disappeared as soon as Snape nodded.

When she was gone, “It isn’t a matter of won’t, Draco.”

“Do you think that matters? Do you think that makes a difference to her? Or to me? Or to any of us?”

Snape considered him for a long while, then sighed. “No.”

“Whatever it is you think you are doing,” said Draco crisply, “it isn’t enough.”

The test came back negative, letters were sent to the Parkinson and Malfoy residences, and by the end of the Easter Holidays one month later, Mr Parkinson was dead. It wasn’t Snape who helped her. It wasn’t anyone who was supposed to do anything. It never was.

“The only way I can protect a child,” says Pansy not for the first time, “is by not having it at all.”

Draco can understand. He always had, right from the beginning.

“You know this was never about Scorpius, don’t you, Draco?”

Her chin is tilted up towards him, face set hard in a Slytherin’s determination.

Draco holds himself very still.

“This is about you and your father. Scorpius is only collateral.” Her fingers locked tight into his, the subtle pain keeping him unwillingly present. “He wants nothing more than to see you fall to pieces and fail. He expects you to either give in and go back, or lose your head and get yourself arrested. Either way he wins. Either way Scorpius is his.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You have to keep living, Draco. On _your_ terms. Prove to everyone who is going to start paying attention — lawyers, Aurors, _Astoria_ — that your father is wrong and watch it drive him mad.” A sly smile slips across her lips. “Scorpius will be okay. He’s strong. He knows you love him, that you’d be with him if you could. You have to think about the rest of your life too.”

A nerve in his neck twitches. “If you’re talking about Theo—”

“Of course I’m talking about Theo. He loves you. He loves _Scorpius_ . I know you’re angry at him, Draco, but none of this is his fault and I think you know that. Don’t take it out on him. He lost Scorpius too. And he nearly lost _you_.”

He feels her eyes searching him, looking for the understanding she knows he has and will not admit. Draco keeps his own gaze averted. It is so much easier to blame Theo, who’s here, who will _stay_ here, who will forgive him even when he doesn’t deserve it.

“You mustn’t let your father win,” he hears Pansy says. “And, right now, that is exactly what you are doing. Refocus, Draco.”

_Refocus, Draco._

He closes his eyes and breathes deep the cool December air.

 _Refocus_. Away from Scorpius.

Because she’s right.

 _Of course she’s right_.

He has been playing right into his father’s hand, letting him control the strings from afar. Just as he always has done.

Lucius Malfoy has never needed to be physically present to maintain control over Draco — whether it’s the distance between Hogwarts and Wiltshire, Azkaban and the Leaky Cauldron, he has always remained firm in the back of Draco’s head, manipulating the strings. Even, and maybe especially, when Draco hadn’t even realised it.

_This was never about Scorpius._

And the only way to beat his father is to keep living.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her cheek before turning and walking down the street, straight towards Number Twenty-Six.

 

*

 

“I’m ready to work,” he says when Harry Potter opens the door.

 

*

 

When Pansy closes the door behind her, the house suddenly feels emptier than it had before. Theo swallows, looking back through the frosted glass at the shape of Draco. Draco who doesn’t want to be there, Draco who doesn’t want to be with him.

“Explain this to me, Nott, will you?”

“What?” Blaise’s voice brings Theo’s attention back to where they stand in the kitchen, alone just the two of them, Blaise holding up the electric kettle with an eyebrow raised in question.

Blaise shakes it at him pointedly. “Tea,” he says. “You need some.”

This is very true, though not necessarily _Blaise’s_ tea purely for the fact that Blaise Zabini — as a rule — does not make tea.  Theo sighs and reaches for it, but Blaise steps neatly out of reach. “No,” he says. “Sit. I’m making.”

“But you don’t know—”

“Then tell me.” As though that is the obvious solution and not a complicated way to achieve something simple.

But Theo doesn’t have the energy for anything more strenuous than lowering himself into one of their shiny new kitchen chairs and slouching down until his chin rests on his arms. “Take it to the sink,” he says with the slow impatience of a teacher who hates their charge. “Open the lid at the top. Stick it under the faucet and fill it with water. Enough but not too much. Put it back on its stand and flick that switch.”

“This switch?”

“Yeah. That switch. The only switch on the bloody thing.”

Blaise rolls his eyes and obeys. The electric sound of slowly warming water fills the silence. “This seems like a lot of effort for tea.”

“Never too much of an effort for tea,” Theo mumbles into his arms. His head _aches;_ the stress behind his eyes sharp and unavoidable. Thinking makes it worse, talking even more so. He groans.

“Pansy will sort him out,” he hears Blaise say with a rare gentleness. “Don’t worry, Nott. These last few weeks have messed us all up. Give him a moment.”

“I know.” It’s true. Theo has been preparing for this day since the moment of Draco’s arrest, aware of the inevitable shift away from their new, fragile normal. That doesn’t make it  easier to bare. Especially when Draco won’t even look at him.

“Is it my fault?” he makes himself ask, pushing the question out into the real world because Blaise can always be counted on to tell  the unfiltered truth. “Is it my fault they took Scorp?”

True to form, Blaise takes his time to consider it before offering his answer. “No, Theo. It isn’t your fault.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”

“Because you know Draco isn’t thinking that way.”

Gritting his teeth, Theo falls back into his arms.

_Logic is irrelevant right now._

“Pansy will talk him round,” says Blaise again. “You know what those two are like.”

Theo nods. He does. The four of them have always been this way — each with their own dynamic with each other. As close as he has been to Draco from the beginning, Pansy is Draco’s soundboard, and he hers. They have shared experiences that Theo could never imagine and they can only work through their demons with one another.

 _“Don’t be jealous,”_ Blaise had said in the early days before Theo had really understood, watching Draco and Pansy disappear off into a secluded corner of the castle without a word after just an exchange of uninterpretatable glances.

It was a long while before the pangs of jealous subsided, before Theo _had_ understood.

And when he did he wished he hadn’t.

_Isn’t that always the way?_

“Drink,” Blaise orders, the command accompanied by a slight burn to his wrist as Blaise pushes a mug at him.

Palms closing around it, Theo pulls himself up and scowls into its depths. It looks like milky piss. “Thanks, Zabini.”

For once, Blaise is unaware of the sarcasm and raises his own mug in a toast.

They drink together, neither mentioning that the tea doesn’t taste anything like tea or the fact that the minutes are ticking by in long increments of ten, and Pansy and Draco are _still_ outside, still talking through all the things that neither want to talk to him about.

 _Don’t be jealous_ , Blaise had said.

But it isn’t jealousy. It’s something deeper and warmer than jealousy, something still compatible with the overwhelming, overarching love he feels for Draco. Something that tastes like guilt without being the same thing. Draco never tells him anything important without Theo asking first, without Theo _pushing_ . He has to notice everything, every single minute detail, looking for where there’s a problem, a nick, because they’re always small, barely visible to the naked eye. They had always been conspirators, always standing to the side of the rest of the world, head to head as though they saw it all in a different light, a _real_ light. It is no wonder that everyone always presumed that Draco and Pansy were destined to be together. Sometimes Theo catches himself thinking the same thing, even now, even after years of being closer than close to them both.

Sometimes it feels like the whole world is an inside-joke between the two of them.

“Stop it,” Blaise says, valiantly continuing to sip the World’s Worst Tea.

“Stop what?”

“ _Mulling_.”

“Who’s mulling?”

“You are, Nott.”

Theo scowls and shoves his mug away. “You’d be mulling too.”

“I dare say I would be,” says Blaise with as much sympathy as Blaise is capable of. “But it’s not going to help you, and it’s certainly not going to help Draco. Go out there if you want. Go and talk to him.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t interrupt them.”

“Why not?” says Blaise in the way which suggests that Theo is an idiot for not thinking about it. “Of course you can. That’s your prerogative when you’re someone’s _significant_ _other_.”

Theo grunts and drinks, distracting himself with the disgusting tea.

“You’ve done up this place nicely, anyhow,” says Blaise, changing the subject entirely and not terribly effectively. “Much better than the dung heap you were trying to pass off as a home before.”

“Yeah, well. Draco’s used to better, isn’t he? Wouldn’t even let me bring any of the old stuff over. Had to buy all new crap and he won’t even bloody set foot in here now.” Anger comes quickly and without warning before Theo has a hope in hell of reasoning it away. He doesn’t feel very reasonable at this moment, especially when no-one else is being reasonable to him. “I’ve done my fucking best, alright? I’ve compromised and compromised, and the least he can _bloody_ do is be here!”

Blaise looks up at him impassively, and it’s only then that Theo realises he’d stood up, hands clenched on the table in fists. “Feel better?”

“No.” Theo sinks back down with a long sigh. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Theo groans into his hands.

“As they say,” says Blaise smoothly, “it can only get better from here.”

“Can it?” Theo asks. “Is that even true?”

Blaise shrugs. “I have no idea, but I’ve heard it often enough that there must be something to it.” Then something on the other side of the vase of bright, blooming fire-flowers catches his eye and he reaches for the envelope that had arrived a week ago. He frowns turning it over to touch the familiar crest on the back. “Hogwarts?” He looks questioningly to Theo. “Why is Hogwarts writing to Draco?”

“How should I know? I’m not about to go opening Draco’s post, am I?”

“I would.”

“I know _you_ would. Don’t.”

Blaise’s mouth twists sulkily, but replaces the envelope anyway. “McGonagall’s still headmistress, isn’t she?”

“As far as I’m aware. I don’t really keep up with Hogwarts business anymore.”

Blaise looks thoughtful, dark eyes lingering on the unopened letter as though, with enough concentration, he could see clear through the thick parchment.

Then the sound of the front door opening sends Theo to his feet and Blaise twisting around in immediate expectation.

It’s Pansy.

Only Pansy.

Theo’s heart lurches and the question stutters in his mouth.

Her lips are parted around a silent apology, then she says, “He’s gone to Potter’s.”

“What?”

“He just… started off down the street. Said they had work they needed to get done.” Her eyes flick down to the envelope. “What’s that?”

“Well, what did he say?” Theo pushes, unwilling to change the subject yet. Draco is more important than anything Hogwarts can send. “How is he? What did you talk about?”

“We just talked,” says Pansy nonchalantly, taking Blaise’s tea from him and drinking. She pulls a face. “Dear Merlin—”

“ _Pans—”_

“Theo,” she returns curtly. “Draco is going to be just fine. We talked. About Scorpius and his father and… other things. He’s going to be okay.”

“But not yet.”

“But not yet,” she agrees. “He’s… working out some things.”

Theo locks his hands behind his back. “Things like me?”

Her apologetic silence is answer enough.

Theo swears under his breath and turns away.

But there’s nowhere else to go. This is home now. This little house that was suppose to be their new life. And Draco doesn’t want to be here with him.

 _Gone straight to Potter’s_.

Without a word or a look.

Theo has never been one to put up with Draco’s nonsense, not since the very beginning. He prides himself on the way he can make Draco hear him and listen to sense even when he’s at his most ridiculous. He has never be one to let Draco get away with being a _prick_.

And this is no different.

Theo snatches up the envelope bearing the distinct green scrawl of Professor McGonagall and stuffs it in his pocket before storming out and down to Number Twenty-Six.

 

*

 

Harry stares at Draco standing in the doorway. He looks like death itself, just as Hermione said. His hair as a tangled mess, tied back and barely out the way, and the shadows beneath his eyes are deep and dark. He wears the same clothes he was arrested in, the mint-green jumper now pitifully faded and in desperate need of a wash. All of Draco Malfoy is in desperate need of a wash.

Draco stares at him, almost willing Harry to let him in.

He does, not about to turn him away now. “I can… put the kettle on if you like?”

Draco nods as though everything is fine and normal, stepping into the Potters’ house like he’s been out for an afternoon. He goes straight to the kitchen and sits down at the place he had made his own during the months spent here.

“I was thinking,” he says, and his voice is brittle like glass. “I was thinking that we should start with a list of contacts, those most likely to be open to the cause. We can draft a press-release, a mission statement, something to give out which explains in no uncertain terms what it is we’re doing. I still think Hogwarts should be our first port of call, just to get the ball rolling, and once we’ve some support confirmed we can start being a little more balshy—” He stops mid-sentence, catching Harry’s staring eyes. “What, Potter?”

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Harry asks. “Have you even been home yet?”

“I’ve been… _home_ , yes,” says Draco in a way that very obviously means ‘no’. “But this can’t wait. Why do you think this can wait? I’m here to work, to get on with it. We’ve waited long enough, we need to start, we need to—”

“ _You_ need to clean up and get some rest,” says Harry, moving to pluck the quill poised above the first scrap of paper Draco could find — a half-page of doodles courtesy of Lily Luna Potter. “You can stay for a cup of tea, then you need to go to bed.”

Draco flushed, the colour a shock against the sickly pallor of his skin, and Harry almost expects him to say, to beg, _‘Please don’t send me home.’_ But Draco simply gives a mechanical nod and looks down, grey eyes moving across Lily’s drawings.

“We can start tomorrow,” Harry offers, feeling abruptly and strangely guilty. “I promise. I just don’t think you’re in any fit state to—”

“I’m fine,” Draco snaps, glaring.

“And don’t you want to spend your time catching up with Theo?”

Again, the heavy flush and there’s a flash of something that Harry doesn’t have time to place before Draco turns away from him.

“He’s been really worried about you, Draco. Over here every day, trying to work out what to do—”

“It isn’t _difficult_.”

Harry pauses over the mugs of fresh tea. “What isn’t?”

“What to do. There’s only been one thing _to do_.”

 _Scorpius_ , neither of them say and both know. _Bring Scorpius home._

“Mr Malfoy?”

Harry nearly swears as Albus slips in and up to Draco before Harry can stop him and warn him to give Draco space and a chance to acclimatize.

Draco gives Albus his undivided attention, a gentle smile on his face as he looks down at the boy looking up at him. “Hullo, Albus.”

Albus frowns at him, taking in the state of him and not sure about it at all. “Did you go to prison.”

“Yes, for a while.”

“Because of that time at the Ministry?”

“That’s right.”

But Harry steps up and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “No, Al. It happened there, but that wasn’t why. It was a very long, drawn out mess, with a lot of complicated winding bits.”

Albus twists to look up at him. “What complicated and windy bits? Stuff to do with Scorp.”

Harry draws out a chair and pulls Albus up onto his lap. “Some of it was to do with Scorp,” he says. “But a lot of it was to do with other people.”

Albus shifts, trying to understand and struggling. He looks back at Draco. “Is it from you being here? Because you were hiding out here?”

Draco nods, looking very much like he’ll start crying if he attempts speech.

“I want to understand,” says Albus firmly to both of them. “I want to understand and I want to help. Was Scorp taken for the same reasons? Why’re you out and he’s not? How’re er gonna get him back?”

“Scorp—”

“No!” Albus glares straight back, eyes bright with righteous anger. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair that he’s not here! He didn’t even do anything wrong! Why’s Mr Malfoy here and Scorp isn’t?”

Harry glances to Draco who’s gone absolutely rigid, no doubt asking himself exactly the same things. “Scorp wasn’t taken because he was in trouble,” says Harry slowly. “It’s very complicated. You see, whilst Draco knows that Scorpius belongs here with him and Theo, Scorpius has a mum too who wants him with her. And grandparents who—” Harry clears his throat, the thought of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy like bile on his tongue. “There are those who believe that Scorpius should be in his family home instead of being with the people who love him the most. It’s very difficult because it isn’t black and white and there are lots of different sides. We know what the right thing is, don’t we? We think that Scorpius should be allowed to choose and that he would choose to be here. But think how difficult it would be for us if Scorpius chose _not_ to be here? Do you think it would seem so easy then?”

Albus shakes his head reluctantly.

“And then there are those who think that Scorpius is too young to decide for himself. Like you know how Mum and I have to make decisions for you and Lily and James because you’re kids and you don’t really know enough about sometimes yet? Well, it’s like that,” says Harry when Albus nods with great feeling, remembering _way_ too many of those times. “Scorp’s mum thinks she knows what’s best for him because she’s his mum. And it’s really difficult when your mum and your dad think two completely different things.”

“And Mr Malfoy got in trouble for thinking different things?”

Harry hesitates. “Scorp’s mum managed to get a lot more people on her side, to think what she thinks, and to think that Scorp shouldn’t be with his dad. There was a bit a fight and, unfortunately, we lost that one.”

“But it isn’t over,” says Draco quietly.

“No. It isn’t over. We just have to be more careful than we were before.”

“Cos you got in trouble for it too, Dad?”

“Yeah, I got in trouble too.”

“Did I get in trouble?”

“No, Al. You’re just fine.”

“Even though Scorp’s mum got mad at me and I couldn’t hold on to him when she took him away?” Albus’s face is slowly crumpling. His lip goes between his teeth. “Is Scorp mad at me?”

“Of course he isn’t, Al. Scorp’s fine.”

“But how d’you _know_ that?”

Harry glances at Draco for help but gets nothing in return. He looks the way Albus looks, like he’s falling to pieces so slowly and steadily you can hardly see it happening. Harry smooths the tears from his son’s face. “Because Scorpius is super strong, isn’t he? It’s going to take more than this to knock him over.”

Albus doesn’t seem convinced. Not even a bit. He looks to Draco, the only person who knows Scorpius as well as he does. “Is that true, Mr Malfoy? Is Scorp really fine?”

And Draco being Draco says, “I don’t know, Albus.”

Which might be the truth but it is not the most helpful thing in the world when you’re trying to comfort an anxious six-year-old.

“But we’re gonna get him back, right? We’re gonna bring Scorp home?” Albus looks frantically between them . “Aren’t we? You said we’re not going to lose again. That means we’re gonna keep fighting? We have to! We have to rescue Scorp, cos it’s like the Aurors and Death-Eaters, isn’t it? And Scorp’s been kidnapped and we have to go and rescue him before— before they—”

“It’s nothing like Aurors and Death-Eaters,” Harry tells him with  firm finality before Albus’s imagination gets the better of him. “Scorpius is fine. We just… need to work everything out and make sure that all the people who need to know understand that Scorpius is best of right here. Alright?”

Albus nods slowly, not wholly convinced.

Draco doesn’t look convinced either. Not even slightly.

Another ring to the doorbell almost has Harry groaning. “Hop up, Al.”

Al hops up.

His dad leaves to tell whoever it is to go away and soliciting isn’t allowed, and Albus is left standing awkwardly in front of Scorpius’s dad who’s looking pretty much exactly how Albus feels.

They look at each with perfect understanding.

_Harry Potter is wrong and Scorpius isn’t okay._

“What’re we gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Albus.”

“Are we gonna rescue him?”

“We’re going to try.”

“And what if we don’t win again?”

Mr Malfoy’s bottom lip goes between his teeth and it looks like he can’t answer, can only give the hopeless sort of shrug that Scorpius gives when he’s trying not to cry and he’s super nearly about to.

Albus feels that too.

So he does what he’d do with his dad or his mum or Lily, but not James, when they’re upset and loops his arms tight around Mr Malfoy’s neck. He can feel the hesitation, the stiff confusion, and all the ways that Scorp’s dad’s not like his own, then Mr Malfoy’s arms go around him and the hug is just as good as any his parents give.

 

*

 

“Hey, Nott,” says Potter already looking wrung out.

“Is he here?”

“Yeah, in the kitchen.” Harry frowns at him. “You didn’t know?”

“Pansy mentioned he’d come this way, but he didn’t say anything to me.” Theo gives a brittle laugh, hands deep in his pockets, wanting to do this anywhere but in Harry Potter’s house. As much time as they have spent together and as easy as it’s getting, it still feels peculiarly unnatural and against all his instincts to let his guard down around a Gryffindor. “Mind if I—?”

“Sure. Sure.” Potter steps aside.

The house is more familiar than his own by this point and Theo takes the path through the Lego scattered across the carpet. He’s spent more time here in the last few weeks than in his own house. _Ridiculous_.

Draco is, as Potter said, in the kitchen, deep in conversation with Albus.

It stops as soon as he appears in the doorway and they both look at him with equal accusation in their eyes. For interrupting. For Scorpius. For failing.

Theo swallows, suddenly completely at a loss how to do this.

He has seen that look in Draco’s eyes before. Many times, in fact, but never directed at him.

_How do other people bear it?_

In the light, in that moment, Draco looks distinctly like his father.

“Hey, Al.” Harry steps up, motioning to his son. “Come help me in the garden for a sec.”

Albus looks like he’s about to refuse, but Potter must be giving him a very significant look because he obeys, leaving Draco and Theo alone for the first time since it all fell to pieces.

Draco turns stiffly away. “You don’t need to use them to get my attention.”

“The hell does that mean?”

Theo is beyond tiptoeing around Draco now. He strides up and yanks out the chair closest, sitting so they’re nearly head to head even when Draco recoils.

“You haven’t spoken one word to me,” he hisses, as much to keep their conversation as private as it’s possible to be in this house as from anger. “You haven’t even _looked_ at me. Not once, Draco. And I’ve been fighting to get you out—”

Draco looks at him so sharply Theo flinches. “And what do you want me to say?” he snaps back. “Thank you? Is that what you expect from me? Gratitude?”

“No— Well, yes, actually, a thank you might be nice.”

“Thank you, then.”

And never have those words sounded more like an insult.

Theo struggles to keep his temper, trying to make allowances for the situation and the circumstances _and every other bloody thing_.

He does a bad job.

“It isn’t my fault,” he says through gritted teeth, “what happened to Scorpius. It isn’t my fault, it isn’t Potter’s fault, or Granger’s—”

“It’s mine, then.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“Then say what you mean, Theo!”

Theo takes a deep breath, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees and his head hangs down. “No, it is not your fault,” he tells the linoleum. “The people to blame are not here. You know that. And that _sucks_ . It sucks that you can’t shout at them like you want to. That you can’t go anywhere near them and you can’t get to Scorpius. I know how hard that is because I feel that too. I want to shout and get angry and _do_ something, but I can’t. Not at the people who deserve it. Only those who don’t. And, believe me, I’ve gone through them all whether they know it or not. Ever since I got there too late, I’ve been telling myself I should’ve done more, I should’ve got there quicker, I should never have taken Scorp to the Ministry, I should never have let him out of my sight. But guess what, Draco? It would’ve happened anyway. One way or another, they were always going to get their hands on him. That isn’t my fault, that isn’t Potter’s fault, and I promise you it isn’t your fault. That doesn’t stop it being the worst. Not even nearly, but—” He sits back, pushing his hair back. Draco is staring at him, his eyes enormous and desperate, hungry for absolution, from himself and from Theo. From Scorpius. “We will get him back. Let me help you. Don’t try and do this on your own.”

Finally the slightest twitch of a smile slips across Draco’s lips and for the first time since he got out, he looks a little like himself again. “That’s what Pansy said.”

“Well, she’s right,” says Theo ruefully.

Draco laughs. “She usually is.”

The air around them eases a little, and Theo reaches for Draco just shy of touching, just the offer of his hands, palms up, and lets Draco bridge the gap.

 After a pause that feels like a lifetime, Draco does and when their fingers are finally laced, it’s as if they had never been apart.

Theo squeezes and Draco squeezes back, falling together until their foreheads touch.

“I thought I’d lost you too,” says Theo. “Draco, it’s been hell.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I—”

Theo braces himself, waiting for the rebuff, for the pull-away.

But Draco’s gaze flicks up to catches his own as he says, “I love you.”

Relief rushes through him like a battering wave, leaving him without the strength even to say it back, just, “ _Fuck_ ,” more a breath than a word.

They stay like that for a long while, just still, just touching, realigning with each other after all that had battered down upon them. A kiss, fierce and gentle, then Theo says, promises, “We will bring Scorpius home.”

“I’m so afraid for him, Theo.”

“I know. Me too.”

“She says… She says it was never to do with Scorpius. It’s always been about me and Father.”

“Pansy?”

Draco nods.

“I don’think she’s wrong.”

“Neither do I.”

“But?”

“But that doesn’t protect him. That doesn’t bring him home.”

“I know, love.”

“She says I have to refocus. Away from Scorp. I-I know she’s right. I know she is. But I… I don’t know how.”

Theo’s hand rested on the nape of Draco’s neck, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. “It was never going to be easy.”

He feels the nod. “But I didn’t think it would be impossible.”

“It isn’t. It only feels that way now.”

Draco lets out a breath so long it seems like he’d been holding it for weeks. “Tell me it will get easier.”

“I can’t. But we have to try anyway.”

“For Scorpius.”

“For Scorpius,” says Theo. “And for us too.”

 

*

 

They walk home together, the short length of street between the Potters’ home and theirs. Pansy and Blaise are still there, still waiting for them, the subtle creases of swallowed worry on both their faces as they search Draco and Theo’s, looking for the cracks and hoping to find none.

Pansy is the first to smile. “Welcome home, Draco.”

Theo’s hand clasped tight in both his own, Draco returns it tentatively and takes in this place that Theo has created for them. It still feels like home, feels like his. Like theirs. And, despite everything, Draco is glad to be here.

Theo cooks — he’s been practicing, as one of many things to keep himself distracted over the last few weeks — and turns out a half decent meal that is still just pasta and jarred sauce but served in actual bows with actual cutlery and includes bread he heated up in the oven himself and only a little burnt at the edges.

It’s the best meal of Draco’s life, and his stomach growls even as he shovels it into his mouth.

Blaise doesn’t touch the food, just drinks the wine he made Theo go out and buy from the newsagent’s down the street. It’s cheap and disgusting, but — as Theo told him bluntly — he should’ve gone to get it himself if he’d wanted to be picky. Then, after his third glass, he asks, “So what was in the letter?”

Draco blinks. “Letter?”

“Oh fuck.” Theo retrieves it from his coat hanging in the hall, and passes it to Draco. “This came a couple weeks ago, not long after— Well, you know.”

Draco turns it over, the emerald-green ink as sharply familiar as the scent of his mother’s perfume, pricking at the recesses of his memory. _Hogwarts._

“I’ve been desperate to open it,” says Theo as Draco cracks the seal carefully. “Taken a will of iron. I hope you appreciate that.”

“Not to mention the illegality of opening someone else’s post,” says Pansy sweetly.

“Yes, well, and that too.”

Draco isn’t listening. Even the texture of the parchment between his fingers is specific, bringing with it a strange pang of homesickness.

He unfolds the letter.

It’s written in handwriting that is distinctly McGonagall’s; the script looping but clear, designed to be read easily by eleven-year-old’s.

But the are not the headmistress’s.

_My dearest Draco—_

 He drops it as though it had burst into flames.

Theo is staring at him, they all are — at the letter, at Draco.

He cannot breathe. Doesn’t dare touch it again.

It cannot be anything more than a trick. A _cruel_ trick. Because he doesn’t think about it. That’s the rule. He can’t.

_Can’t think about Snape._

He remembers the shape of the words on Potter’s lips and the dip of regret on his lips that moment in the Great Hall, at the end of all things. After they had survived. After they had _won_. Potter pushed through the sea of people all clamoring for his attention; friends and allies and survivors, leaving them all for a precious moment to make time for the Malfoys standing alone at the back, dazed and dizzy and just starting to wonder where their place this new world would be.

Potter greeted Narcissa first, thanking her for the she’d played, and then he’d said, looking briefly to Draco, still fire-singed and wobbling where he stood,he’d said—

_I’m so sorry. I know you were close._

And it had taken so long to make sense of the words, to put meaning to them, because it was over and they were alive, they were all alive, except… except…

The letter crumples, balled up in his hands.

Draco stalks to the bin hidden beneath the sink, and disposes of it.

His friends are all staring at him, all desperately curious and dying to know.

“It’s nothing,” Draco tells them.

Blaise is the first to say, flatly, “I don’t believe you,” sending a flare of colour straight to Draco’s cheeks.

“A joke,” he tries again. “A tasteless joke. It’s really nothing.”

“McGonagall doesn’t joke,” Pansy points out.

“Then someone is impersonating her handwriting,” says Draco with a edge of desperation he cannot help. “It… wasn’t from her anyway.”

Theo rises. “Then who _was_ it from?”

“Theo—”

This, at least, makes Theo pause but only momentarily before concern overrides consideration. He beelines for the bin — as much his as Draco’s — and retrieves the discarded letter.

Draco’s arms dip unhappily around his middle. It feels like before, like that evening in the Leaky Cauldron, faced with his mother’s summons and the news of his father’s release. His friends read the same way they read then — passing the letter between themselves with shared concern that rises like a cloud, cloaking the whole room.

“This… can’t be real?” says Pansy, looking between Theo and Blaise for the affirmation she cannot quite give herself, not trusting Draco’s determined, “Of course it isn’t real.”

“But who would joke like this?” Blaise says frowning down at the handwriting they all know intimately. “Why would anyone— And, Draco, this is _very_ specific.”

Theo says simply, “This _is_ Snape.”

Because they all know their professor’s voice, distinctive even in writing. There is no passing this off as a joke, they can all see it, even in its impossibility: This _is_ Snape.

“Is it possible that Snape survived?”

“No,” says Draco. “No, that’s not… that’s can’t be possible.”

“A ghost, then?”

“Wouldn’t Potter know?” says Pansy and Draco winces. “Does he not go back to Hogwarts?”

But Draco shakes his head. “He told me he hasn’t gone back since just after the war. But I don’t understand… How can this be true? How can this possibly real? And if it is—” _Why didn’t he write me before?_ He feels sick, suddenly and violently, and has to turn away from the letter in Theo’s hands, his own clamped to his mouth, swallowing and swallowing because he doesn’t think about it _he doesn’t think about it_.

_I have mourned you. I have let you go._

_Why didn’t you come back before?_

_Why wait until everything has fallen to pieces?_

Draco knows the answer — because that is what Snape has always done

His head aches too much.

“I can’t think about this,” he snaps at a cautious touch to his shoulder. “Put it away. I don’t want to look at it.”

“I’m not going to throw it away,” says Theo.

“Fine. That’s fine, just… put it away.”

“It’s gone,” says Theo and, when Draco turns back, it is; Theo’s hands are empty until they take Draco’s, drawing him into a warm embrace. “When are you going to Hogwarts?’

“I don’t know. Soon. Potter wouldn’t let me work today.”

“Quite right too. You’re in no state to think about serious things right now.”

Draco clings a little tighter. “I can’t think of anything else.”

“I know.”

He is so tired — so _bone_ tired it’s hard to even stand. He doesn’t need to, not with Theo’s arms around him, holding him up.

Draco never wants to move from this place.

“I think we’ll take our leave,” he hears Pansy murmur, and still Draco doesn’t move.

He listens to her feet and Blaise’s retreating, the pop of the fireplace and the sudden stillness. Still Draco doesn’t move.

Theo’s fingers comb gently through the mess of his hair, pulling it free from its tie.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

 

*

 

It’s harder at night, in the stillness of their home and the darkness of their room and the warmth of their bed. Theo is curled up on his side, breath soft in Draco’s hair. Draco who lies on his back staring wide eyes up at the ceiling he can’t see. Their covers are soft, have been worn in through the weeks of his absence. They smell like Theo, of their new life.

Draco closes his eyes and wishes for Scorpius, imagining his son lying awake in the chilled stone walls of Malfoy Manor, in the bed that’s too big for a five-year-old, unable to slip out and creep through the house to snuggle up with Draco because Draco isn’t there.

He rolls over, burying his face in his pillow.

Has anyone explained it all to Scorpius? If Draco were to put Galleons on it, he’d guess not. Questions were never welcome from the lips of children, and even less so from incomprehensible fingers. Where does Scorpius think he is? Why does he think Draco hasn’t come? _What have they told him?_

If anything at all.

He moves as carefully and as quietly as he can, but Theo still shifts in his sleep, arm drifting to the warm place Draco leaves behind, fingers unconsciously searching for him.

Theo had set his glasses waiting for him on his bedside table, and it’s a relief to hook them over his ears and feel them take the strain of the poor light as he slips out of their bedroom and into the hall, past the door marked _Scorpius’s Room_ and down the stairs into the kitchen.

The letters still sits in a crumpled ball on the table. 

Draco considers it from a distance, the floor frozen against his bare feet. 

They had all read it, his friends, all passed their judgements and offered their speculations. Theo insisted it was worth keeping. 

Draco steps in with all the caution learned from Defense Against The Dark-Arts — appropriate for approaching dangerous, unknown creatures, and wishing dearly for his wand, naked and vulnerable without it. 

He sits and, with the utmost care, smooths out the creases.

 

_My dearest Draco,_

_I know I haven’t been here for you. I wanted to and my only excuses — that I didn’t think you needed me any longer, that I am incapable of being of any use in my current state, that I didn’t want to add further complications to your life — feel pitiful in the wake of the Prophet report. It is clear that so much has happened and changed in your life that I have been unable to keep up with, and for that I am sorry. I hope you have good people on your side, that you are not alone during these difficult times. More than anything I wish I could be with you. I know I have failed you and that this is just one more instance in a long string across the span of your life. I have only ever wanted good things for you, and everything I have done I did to try and ensure that but there are certain forces that have always played against that mission. Your father promised me you would be protected, but after a lifetime of friendship I ought to have known that such promises would not go far._

_Please know that I do not expect anything to come from this note, and I more than understand if you want nothing to do with me. Just know that I am on your side, just as I have always been. Nothing has changed, Draco._

_Severus Snape._

 

And then a note at the end, not quite a post-script:

 

_Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it, Draco._

_Minerva McGonagall_

 

He bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop until tears run down his face and he can’t breathe. How many times — how many _fucking_ times — had he asked? How many times had he been denied? Funnily enough — _hilariously_ — those numbers are exactly equal. Where was Hogwarts when his father had locked him in the Manor and forced him to resit every single one of his exams to claw those few missed marks else risk being pulled out of school completely? How often had they sent him home, fully aware of what they were sending him to? Where was Hogwarts when Lucius Malfoy would just _turn_ _up_ unannounced in the middle of dinner, of practice, or _class_ and drag Draco out? Where was Hogwarts when Flint shoved him against the wall of the Quidditch changing rooms? Where was Hogwarts in sixth year when he came back to school looking like death, with the mark burned into his arm, being ripped apart from the inside out to save his family, all right in front of the teachers who were supposed to protect him? In front of the professor now sweetly reminding him that all he need do is ask, as though that were his failing, as though he hadn’t known from eight-years-old that no-one would ever _ever_ stand against Lucius Malfoy and _do something_.  Real or not, it doesn’t matter.

Draco takes immense satisfaction in shredding their old, empty words. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! I'm excited to be back ^^ If you've enjoyed this chapter please consider leaving a comment, they're all treasured <3
> 
> Also, I'm looking for a beta! I'd really appreciate some help just keeping all this together so if anyone has any time to spare and would be willing to lend a hand, please consider me.


	4. Daphne's Wedding: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in 2 parts because it got HECKA long, but good news that means two (2) chapters coming in quick succession, so MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Scorpius twists in his seat every time someone knew enters the wedding tent. His clothes are doing their best to keep him still, just like his grandmother’s restraining hand on his arm, but Scorpius doesn’t care. She said he could be there today and it’s all that’s been keeping him going for days and days as his mother fusses with his robes, fitting and hemming and making sure they’re just tight enough that he can’t wriggle around too much. She didn’t succeed. There isn’t anything in the whole world that can stop Scorpius from wriggling. And it isn’t his fault that they had to get there too early because something to do with Aunt Daphne needing ‘moral support’ and his mother being Maid of Honour, and they’ve been there for hours and hours and nothing’s started yet and he’s  _bored_.

“Scorpius.”

He scowls at his grandfather who’s got no right to talk or tell him off because he’s just as fidgety as Scorpius is except no-one’s about to tell him to sit still any time soon. Though it’s obvious his grandmother  _really_  wants to. She looks very pretty, just like his mother does; pale hair done up in a complicated sort-of knot with shiny sparkles that look like stars, the same sort that his mother painstakingly stitched into his robes, making them even more itchy and uncomfortable than they had been in the first place.

“Welcome. Thank you  _so_  much for coming.”

Scorpius twists again to the newcomers being greeting by Grandma and Grandpa Greengrass, but at first glimpse of not-Malfoy-blond hair, Scorpius slouches in his seat with a sigh.

There is no reason why his dad shouldn’t be here, but he isn’t.

 _“Draco’s been released,”_  he overheard them saying the other night, all the way down from the first-floor landing behind the banisters to the living where the grownups were finishing up their day.

It was Grandmother who said it, sounding tired and not very happy. “Draco was released this afternoon. Davinport posted bail.”

Then his mother, higher, frightened, “He won’t try and come here, will he?”

And his grandfather in a low murmur, “The terms were explicit, Astoria. Draco knows the risks. There is nothing to fear.”

Scorpius couldn’t think of anything any of them should be afraid of. But, then, he couldn’t think of anything at all except,  _Draco was released._  Even if he didn’t know where his dad had been released from, that didn’t matter. Released meant free, and free meant there was nothing stopping him coming to get Scorpius.

But he didn’t.

Scorpius waited, just like he’d waited before, but his dad didn’t come.

And it was worse this time because he couldn’t imagine all the elaborately scary things trapping Draco in high towers and under-water caverns and all the difficult places to get away from that meant it was literally physically impossible to get to the Manor and get to Scorpius.

Because  _Draco’s been released_.

Those three words had sent him into the absolute worst mood he could ever remember being in, the deepest, darkest pit of bad moods, like the ones James got into sometimes, the ones that sent him stomping around and slamming doors and shouting, “Leave me alone!” except Scorpius didn’t do the shouting bit. He did the lips-pressed-so-tight-they-didn’t-have-a-single-chance-at-prizing-words-out-of-him bit, which is doubly effective against his family.

It had made him even less willing to put up with his mother’s instances that he keep still and let her finish these robes because he didn’t want to because he hated her he hated her he  _hated_ her, and he hated that his dad wasn’t there and he should be and why wasn’t he and it wasn’t  _fair._

And he’d nearly nearly asked, had practiced making the shapes on his lips though it was nearly impossible to pick the words he wanted to use. His fingers would know what to say but there was no-one here to understand them, and everything ended up getting so clogged up and messy in his head he’d exploded into tears in the middle of his mother pinning his robes along the sleeves.

Scorpius ripped his arm out of her hands, nearly tearing the fragile fabric, to cover up his face. He didn’t want her to see him crying. He didn’t want her to see him at all.

For a long while it felt like she didn’t, like he was the only person in the world and that was good, but he could hear her breathing, could feel her hesitation, the not knowing what to do about this, and eventually she patted him awkwardly which just made him stiffen up even more.  “Scorpius,” he heard her say, and he hated the way his name sounded in her voice. He jerked away when she reached for him, hating her and hating her and hating her.

And then she’d said… she’d said…

“He might be there, you know.”

And it was like the whole world stopped, a needle point to only those words. He didn’t even dare to breathe for fear of breaking the already fragile spell.

“At Aunt Daphne’s wedding,” she clarified like he was too stupid to get it the first time. And, “Your father.”

Scorpius stared at her, searching for the lie that absolutely had to be there.

But his mother’s face was perfectly smooth of anything expect the dip of concern between her eyes.

She was, maybe, telling the truth.

It had kept him still and compliant all the way up to this point three days later.

And now Scorpius is  _desperate._

The wedding tent is set up in the middle of a snow field, and really it should be really cold but it’s magicked so it isn’t. His robes feel clingy and tight, and itchy at the collar and he can’t sit still and he doesn’t want to sit still, and all the rows of chairs are slowly slowly being filled up, and none of them are filled with his dad or Theo or anyone he knows or cares about, and that lump in his throat is starting again and every time his grandmother tries to correct him to tell him to sit still and be good he wants to  _scream._

“Thank you so much for coming.”

One more twist, all the way back, and Scorpius’s heart flips.

It’s not his dad or Theo, but it is Pansy and Scorpius is drawn to her immediately, wanting to get to her as the next best thing to his dad. He wants her so  _badly_.

Pansy and Blaise were never as nice or easy as Theo, they always looked at him like they were a bit wary of him, though they always warmed up eventually and his dad always told him that he could trust them just as much as Theo, that they would always look out for him and care for him too.

He has to get to her.

He’s wriggling, halfway out his seat, ready to run and grab a hold of her, but his grandmother catches the back of his collar and yanks him back,

“Scorpius,” she hisses. “I will not tell you again. Sit.  _Still_.”

He glares at her and she glares back, her hold on him only tightening further. But there’s no way he can get away from her. Not like this.

“Is that Parkinson?” Scorpius hears his grandfather ask. “And who’s that with her? Andrew Davinport?”

“I told you about their marriage,” Grandmother murmurs back. “It’s all very questionable. Of course, he has a fortune and no-one to leave it to. Parkinson always was an opportunist. She always had her sights set on Draco.”

 

Lucius’s mouth twists. Parkinson is instantly recognizable as the dour-faced girl Draco associated with. Her dark hair is cut in a sharp line, and her make-up is striking and precise; every bit of her a weapon and a challenge, just as it ever was. She grips the arm of the tall, older man beside her — his robes a perfect match to her dress — as her gaze sweeps the gathering crowd as though searching for something. For someone. Her eyes settle on him and, even from that distance, Lucius see her jaw clench.

“I’m surprised her invitation had not been invalidated,” he murmurs to Narcissa. “Along with Nott’s and Zabini’s.”

“I believe it was,” Narcissa responds softly. “But Davinport is one of Greengrass’s most valuable associates. His invitation couldn’t be withdrawn without causing lasting offense. Scorpius Hyperion, I will not tell you again. Sit.  _Still_.”

The boy is halfway out his chair and not listening in the slightest, ready to jump down and run, but Narcissa hooks him around the collar and holds him fast. He shoots her a look that would have earned Draco a slap.

They are being careful with Scorpius, that is the agreement, the promise Narcissa pushed him to make. They cannot waste their last chance.

 

*

 

Pansy sees him immediately, and her grip on Andrew’s arm tightens.  _Scorpius_. Sitting between his grandparents, and the sight of Lucius Malfoy makes her sick to her stomach. She had prepared for it, of course. There wasn’t a hope that they wouldn’t be there, but to actually see them in the flesh after everything that had happened—

She tries not to think about Draco’s father, focusing everything on Scorpius, committing the sight of him there, kneeling up on his seat, looking right back at her, to memory effectively enough to relay to Draco later before—

Narcissa tugs him back down to his seat with an audible thump, leaning to whisper something in his ear.

“Pansy?” Andrew’s voice comes low and concerned in her ear, and she’s suddenly aware of how hard her fingernails are digging into his arm.

The grip doesn’t lessen, even then.

Cannot let go of the deep, bruising  _anger_  thumping through her blood.

How dare he, this man, this evil  _evil_  man, be permitted so close to Scorpius.

She could take him, right now, quick as a single green flash and to hell with the consequences—

“Pansy, darling.”

Her feet move in obedience to Andrew of their own accord, finding their seats in the middle of the right aisle; her wand remaining useless in the inner pocket of her dress.

Andrew steers her gently. He understands, and she’s thankful for that — the sensible voice in her head when her own inevitably fails.

It all feels eerily like Draco’s wedding, crowded with the same people, the same families who had hosted the parties of their childhood, whose children she’d been at school with, who have children of their own now, all looking just like they had, bound up in restrictive robes and bullied into being still and quiet and unnoticeable. Just like Scorp _._  Just like they had been.It all catches Pansy abruptly, whipping the breath from her throat.

It’s all too much and nothing ever changes, just goes round and round, making all the same mistakes all over again. Isn’t that what Draco is always saying? She had never put much stock in his furious ramblings before, but she understands now with startling clarity.

This whole event is just living proof that Draco is right.

The veneer is utter perfection; all shimmering lines and complex lace. Everyone is done up beautifully, in the outfits of the pure-blooded aristocracy, like every day is a Yule Ball to them. She and Andrew are no different, no better, there to make their own impression. She remembers being a little girl and laced by house-elves into a confection of silk and ruffles and  _hating_  it; their mother pitching each sister against the others. Everything was a competition, at home, out of the home, everyone had to be the prettiest, had to do garner the most attention. Everyone had to be more than perfect.

And nothing has changed.

The war made no difference.

It’s like she can see it all through Draco’s eyes for the first time; the hypocrisy of this life that has always been hers as stark as fresh snow; her eyes drawn to the children, the new generation, noticing them for the first time like a glimpse of her own reflection in a mirror she never allows herself to look at.

Strings sound; bows drawn across strings in a fragile tremolo, anticipating the bride and her party.

All heads turn. Hers and Andrew’s too.

Astoria Malfoy leads the way, her expression a stony defense. Because, of course, she knows that people are talking about her — probably more than they were talking about the bride — and what they are saying, and the judgments being cast down — wild speculations about the state of her marriage and her own role in its disintegration. Blaming her just as much as they blame Draco.

 

*

 

As she watches Daphne take her place alongside her new husband, all Narcissa can think about is Draco and Astoria’s wedding. There is nothing of that day in this one, and that jars her badly. Narcissa had planned their wedding down the finest details. Everything element had been flawless. But it was nothing like this.

She stares at Daphne and Stephen, noting the way they look at each other. Draco and Astoria have never looked at each other like that. She had thought she’d made a good choice for her son in the youngest Greengrass girl but she hadn’t known Draco as well as she thought, and Narcissa is struck suddenly by the immensity of her own failures.

 _This_ is love.

It reminds her of herself and Lucius, and their fingers find each other around the slouched form of their grandson. Their parents had got it right. Why hadn’t she?

Astoria stands stony and impassive at her sister’s side as vows are exchanged above the soft lilt of music, watching with a jealousy she can’t quite conceal; wondering how and where things had been allowed to go so wrong. Where they had failed her. Her parents beam, proud and happy, just as they had for her, though Stephen doesn’t have half the prospects or the fortune that Draco did. Daphne chose him for herself, and they had allowed her to have that choice, trusting her opinion where they hadn’t for Astoria, seeing only the Malfoy legacy and desperate for their daughter to be a part of that. Narcissa wonders if they feel as she does, as Astoria does, comparing the girls and their lot. But it’s clear that they have no thoughts to spare for their youngest as Daphne and Stephen seal their union with a kiss.

 

*

 

It’s easy to slip away from his grandparents’ sharp eyes once the boring bit’s over and the house-elves have reset the wedding tent into something more like a restaurant with a big space for dancing in the middle. It is not, however, any easier to find Pansy or look for his dad. In fact it’s much harder, without the vantage of everyone being sitting and him being able to kneel up on his chair. Now, Scorpius is surrounded by a massive forest of legs and they’re all moving and looking the same and he’s lost in a heart-beat.  Freedom isn’t necessarily the best thing ever, and his robes are getting itchy from being too hot and he’s pretty sure he’s passed this table twice and he’s  _definitely_  passed this hovering plate of canapes before but it’s moving as well so that doesn’t definitely mean that he’s going around in circles and not getting anywhere but it certainly feels like it.

“Hey,” a voice hisses from somewhere within the forest of feet. “ _Malfoy.”_

Scorpius spins, turning a full circle and still unable to pinpoint the source of the voice.

It splits into giggles.

Scorpius’s face gets hot and he’s about to move, get away somewhere anywhere but there, reminded starkly of James Potter in the beginning before Scorpius punched him in the nose and they reached their mutual understanding, but the voice calls again, “Wait!”

He stalls long enough to count as a wait, wishing his feet would just move as a boy and two girls — all bigger and probably older than him — slither out from under a table and circle around him, all peering at him like he’s a new sort of creature they’d never seen outside of picture books before.

Scorpius eyes them warily, hands locked into the sides of his robes, bunching the fabric in fists.

It was the boy who’d spoke and he goes for it again, “You are a Malfoy, aren’t you?”

Scorpius nods slowly, not understanding the significant look that passes between the girls who’re dressed similarly enough that they’ve got to be sisters. It’s not quite the way Albus’s gran had said it — hissed through her teeth like the word was poison,  _“Malfoy,” —_  but there’s enough of weird edge to it that the sound flips Scorpius’s stomach. His hands lock behind his back.

“Is it true,” says the boy eagerly, stepping up too close, “that your father went rabid at the Ministry and attacked everyone and got sent to Azkaban? That’s what  _my_  father says.”

“That’s what  _everyone_  says,” says one of the girls in a bored voice.

The boy doesn’t look at her. He stares at Scorpius with narrowed, calculating eyes, like he’s trying to work something out. “Well? Is it?” Even if he could speak, even if his voice worked right and didn’t clog up in his throat every time he even thinks about it, Scorpius still wouldn’t have the words.

It’s like time’s spinning around him, faster and faster, and making everything an impossible whirl except him and this boy who’s talking about his dad. It’s like back at the Potter’s when Jame’s face had twisted into a triumphant smirk, relishing the word before he hurled it at Scorpius —  _Death Eater._  Like a punch inthe face.

“Say something, then,” says the boy with a bit of a laugh in his voice. “What’s wrong with you? Are you mad too? Just like your father”

“Our mother says it was only a matter of time before he went mad because he’s a Death-Eater and a homos-something and cheated on his wife with a man and what does anyone really expect from that family?” says one of the girls whilst the other one nods sagely at her side. “It’s in the blood.”

A flash of nervousness crosses the boy’s face at her words but he stifles it with a swagger that sends Scorpius tripping backwards, hitting the edge of a table with a wince.

“Lucky for us your father’s locked away. Maybe you should be too. In St Mungo’s loony bin. Your grandfather was in Azkaban too, wasn’t he? I heard he confunded the Aurors guarding him. I heard he wants to be the next dark lord, that he’s going to take up right where You-Know-Who left off, I heard… I heard… I heard…”

But Scorpius can’t listen anymore, can hardly even think. The boy’s jabbering on too fast to keep up, all gleeful and angry about something, something that’s his fault, and his dad’s, and his grandfather’s, and the edge of the table is sharp in his back and more people are gathering, more curious children eager to escape the collective boredom of the grownups’ party, and a mumbling whispered hissing wave of  _Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy…_

Scorpius squeezes his eyes shut.

It feels like before.

He didn’t want to go to the Ministry Day Care.

His dad had explained it to him two days ago, sitting together on their bed in their room in the Leaky Cauldron that had become home a week ago.

“You’ll love it,” his dad promised over and over. “There’ll be so many children your age, you’ll make so many friends—” He trailed off as Scorpius shook his head so hard he fell over onto the mattress, and sighed. “You have to  _try_ , Scorp. I need you to try.”

 _Why?_  Scorpius had asked with his fingers, looking upside-down at his dad. The new language Theo had taught him was still clunky but he and his dad were working it out steadily. Even when Draco spoke out loud, he tried to sign too. It was making sense quickly, but—  _No-one will understand me, Daddy._

Trouble flickered across Draco’s features and he couldn’t hide it quick enough before pushing it back with a smile that was too bright to be real. “You don’t know that,” he lied. “You won’t know unless you go, unless you try.”

_Don’t want to know. Don’t want to try._

“Scorpius—”

_Daddy!_

But there wasn’t even a battle to lose.

It didn’t matter how much he cried or how adamantly he refused his coat or his socks or his shoes, or how many times he signed  _No!_  at too-early-o’clock, Draco whisked him up and took him outside into the cold, making long strides through Diagon Alley, all the way from one end to the other.

Scorpius hid his face in his dad’s shoulder the whole way, only telling where the were by the air on the back of his neck — frosty in the street and warm inside the Ministry. His fingers ached with cramp by the time they stopped and Draco had to pry them gently apart.

 _I don’t want to,_ Scorpius said as soon as his hands were free.  _I don’t want to I don’t want to!_

Everything was tears and telling his dad  _no_  and trying to cling and being pushed back, held away, which only made him cry more.

“First day struggles?” said a lady, voice spilling with sympathy. “It’s okay, lovely, everyone has a hard time for the first day. Can I show you all the toys I’ve got in here? I bet there’s something we can find that you’ll love.”

Scorpius angled away from her, springing back to his dad who couldn’t stop him quick enough before Scorpius was a scarf around his neck once more.

He felt Draco sigh, felt him start to give in, and then the heady relief as he slowly said, “Maybe we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“It won’t be easier tomorrow,” the lady said and Scorpius wanted to glare at her but that would mean letting go of his dad and he didn’t want to do that even more. “We’ll take good care of him, I promise.” He felt her closeness as she crouched down next to them. “My name’s Melissa, can you tell me yours?”

Which only made everything ten million times worse.

“We’re not very talkative,” Draco murmured. “This is Scorpius Mal—”

“Malfoy, yes, I know.” There was a smile in her voice but Scorpius felt his dad stiffen at her words, felt him coiling like he wanted to run away just as much as Scorpius did.

This was a bad idea. The lady was right — it wouldn’t be easier tomorrow so they should just give up now and his dad shouldn’t go back to work and they can just stay inside the Leaky Cauldron and Theo could come and visit all the time and everything would be just fine.

Scorpius held his breath, waiting for Draco to catch onto that line of thought.

But then— “Albus, go back inside please.”

“Why’s he hiding?”

“Albus, do you remember that conversation we had to have yesterday about listening the first time?”

“Hey—” Scorpius felt a poke in his side. He snuffled, laying his cheek against his dad’s shoulder to look at the perpetrator.

A frowning face beneath wild black hair blinked back at him. “Why’re you hiding?” He didn’t wait for the response that Scorpius couldn’t give. “You’re new and I found you first and that means you have to be my friend, okay?”

The woman sighed. “Albus, that’s not the way—”

“No, I found him first,” Albus told her firmly, then tugged at Scorpius’s sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s play.”

Scorpius found himself peeling away from his dad, drawn to this boy determined to be his friend, all fierceness and ready to fight and argue his case, claiming Scorpius for his own. Scorpius was too confused to resist, just let himself be pulled into the brightly coloured room filled with toys and staring eyes, first at the newcomer then even bigger in the faces of those who clocked the significance of the white-blond hair and the man following after him to fill out the enrollment paper-work,

And then the mumbling wave of  _Malfoy_  started.

Scorpius looked back at his dad standing at the desk in the front and doing a terrible job at pretending he couldn’t hear. He looked how Scorpius felt, embarrassment a visible flush in his face, and Scorpius wanted to go back to him and they could run away back to the Leaky Cauldron and away from all of this, but the Albus’s hand was locked tight on his.

“It’s fine,” he said, leading Scorpius over to an overflowing box of bricks. “This is what it was like for me’n James in the beginning. My dad says it’s cos Mum’s a Quidditch player so everyone knows us.” He tilted his head curiously. “Is your mum a Quidditch player too?”

Scorpius shook his head.

“Never mind. It’s probably cos you’re just new, then. That’s why I wanted to grab you before anyone else does. I never get to anyone first and everyone’s weird with me and I never get to anyone before they don’t have time to get weird, you know?”

Scorpius didn’t really know. The boy talked so fast he could hardly keep up.

“What’s your name, anyway?” he said, raising his voice over the rush of bricks as he tipped the box right over, spilling them out in a sea across the carpet. “I’m Albus Sev’rus Potter.”

He looked expectantly up at Scorpius, looking from his face to his fingers that had started moving in the familiar that Theo had taught him meant  _Scorpius_.

He froze, face reddening.

But Albus only looked interested. “What’s that?” he asked, mimicking the pattern of Scorpius’s fingers. “Is that how you talk?”

Scorpius nodded slowly.

“Wow…” Albus grinned, the bricks splayed ignored around him. “That’s so cool! Show me!”

So he did. There was a brief interruption from his dad saying ‘bye’ and ‘be good, be safe’, but they spent the whole day sitting on the carpet eagerly learning how to talk to each other, unaware of the looks and the mutterings surrounding them. Other people didn’t matter. Albus talked and Scorpius translated with his fingers, and there was a helpful alphabet book to help with the spelling-words like ‘Scorp’ and ‘Al’, and it was the best when Albus started signing too.

No-one else mattered from that point on.

No-one else  _needed_  to matter.

Until now, when there is no Albus to grab his hand and say ‘it’s okay, ignore them.’

There is no joyous curiosity and breathy,  _‘Cool!’_

Just curled lips and mocking smiles and  _Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy_ and, “He’s as mad as his father.”

Fury flashed through Scorpius’s blood, sparking on the fingers hidden behind his back.  _My dad’s not mad!_

A chorus of laughter at his flying fingers flushes his face.

“He’s not  _mad_ ,” says a different voice but not a friendly one, not in defense. “He’s  _broken._ ”

And, somehow, that is ten million times worse.

Because he isn’t certain that it isn’t true.

The boy’s smug expectation bores into him, like Scorpius is proving the point with every word he cannot speak. The thought of trying to talk, trying to say out-loud the words ready in his hands makes him feel sick to his stomach. It isn’t that he can’t, it’s that he  _can’t_ , and there is no-one anywhere near who’s willing or able to understand that.

To his utter humiliation, tears start to burn his eyes.

Then a familiar voice, pricked with disdain, saves him.

“Serbius Dawson,” says Pansy crisply, “I know for a fact that your mother warned you about ruining your dress-robes this afternoon. I don’t think she’d be very happy if you happened to drop chocolate down your front, do you?”

Serbius stares at her, momentarily baffled by the intrusion into what was proving to be a very satisfying remedy to The Most Boring Afternoon Ever, then executes a spectacular eye-roll.

To which Pansy promptly responds by very gently smushing a dark chocolate canape complete with maraschino cherry right into Serbius’s crisp white shirt.

It very nearly makes up for everything else as Pansy’s arm slips around Scorpius’s shoulders and leads him away from the horrible children to a quiet(er) corner of the tent. 

 

*

 

Pansy has been itching to get to Scorpius the moment they stepped into the wedding tent, and this time Andrew doesn’t try to stop her. The boy was far away enough from the immediate reach of his family that the inevitable collision and explosion between Pansy and Lucius Malfoy was not a risk. He understood her fury, felt enough of it himself to recognize the danger, but a confrontation would do nothing to help either Scorpius or Draco. Andrew is exceptionally thankful that she now listens to him, no longer responds to every level suggestion as though it were a personal slight; respected their similarities and differences enough to — finally — respect him.

They were lucky, Andrew knows, that their invitation had not been retracted as Theo’s, Blaise’s and Draco’s were, though it is only through his connection with the bride’s father that kept them on the list.

“Don’t go near the Malfoys,” he had warned Pansy, grappling with his cufflinks as she waited impatiently by the door, done up impeccably and finished an hour before. “Any of them.”

Her mouth had twisted furiously, but she didn’t argue. Not really. Just a curt, “I promised Draco I would tell him how Scorpius is.”

Every ounce of god Hufflepuff sense riled against what Andrew was certain was a  _bad idea_. But, equally, he could see it for what it was — a heavy compromise that had been nearly impossible for Pansy to make when all she truly wanted to do was get Lucius Malfoy right in the face with an Unforgivable.

“Do it subtly,” was all he asked of her.

And, to her credit, she had.

Andrew watches her through the press of people — most of whom he knows and none of whom he particularly wants to talk to — sipping at the fine-spun glass of blackcurrant wine. Scorpius is being hounded by Serbius Dawson, Andrew’s sister’s daughter’s youngest who has always been particularly skilled in obnoxiousness, and Pansy isn’t standing for any of it. Andrew hides a smile in the rim of his glass as she turns on her heel with Scorpius in tow, leaving behind a stricken chocolate-covered Serbius. Hell hath no fury, and all that.

He expects to remain where he is, content in his solitude with the very pleasant drink, and wait for Pansy to return to his side with her diagnosis of Scorpius’s state of being.

He does not expect his attention to be tugged away by a murmured conversation that is, technically, none of his damn business.

“What exactly is wrong with the boy, Malfoy? He wasn’t born mute, was he?”

“Of course not.” Lucius Malfoy voice is like broken glass in a beach of fine sand. “It is the result of over-indulgence, nothing more. Nothing that can’t be put back to normal. Draco went through a similarly irritating spell too.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about the mess your boy turned out to be.” There’s a sly smile in the voice, a smugness shared by many in this particular circle regarding the Malfoys’ very public humiliation regarding Draco. “Looks like all that work you put in didn’t count for much in the end, did it, Lucius?”

“Draco’s disintegration is regrettable but inevitable,” says Lucius smoothly. “The boy was always resistant to his role. I am not surprised he took advantage of my absence, only thankful that my return was timely enough to see ensure that the impact on Scorpius is minimal. I dread to think what might have happened if they’d been permitted to go unchecked any longer.”

Andrew most  _certainly_  did not expect to be goaded into joining this particular conversation.

Pansy’s nature must be rubbing off on him.

“Might I hazard an educated guess?” he says pleasantly, slipping into the small circle of self-congratulatory pureblood patriarchs who can — as far as Andrew is concerned — all go fuck themselves, as Theo Nott is so keen on muttering whenever the subject of the older generation comes up.

Montague and Robins blink in his direction, surprised by the intrusion of a man usually so keen on avoiding company and conversation in equal measure.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks like he had been expecting it. As ever, not much takes Lucius Malfoy by surprised. He turns away from the others to give Andrew the full weight of his attention. Despite Andrew being taller by several inches and older by more than several years, Malfoy dominates simply because that seems to be his ultimate purpose in life. Apart from the distinct numbers imprinted in the side of his neck, Lucius looks no worse for wear since his stint in Azkaban, as though he had simply been on an extended and enforced leave, returning ready and revitalized. Andrew had overheard Pansy discussing the matter in those very terms with Blaise and Theo, but it was only now — faced Draco’s father— that Andrew really understands.

And it is only now he realised exactly what Draco is up against.

Andrew does not envy Draco in the slightest.

“Davinport,” says Lucius tightly by way of greeting. “Rumour has it it was your money that sprung my son from his cell.”

“Rumours are unnecessary,” Andrew returns. “I make no secret of it. We don’t all spend our lives slinking in shadows and making underhand deals to get what we want.”

Lucius’s mouth twists. “The lengths you must go to to get your wife into bed,” he muses, “is truly tragic. But, I suppose, you knew what you were getting into when you got your hands on Parkinson’s girl. I hope you did, anyway. Loneliness can do terrible things to even the sharpest minds and how long, exactly, has it been since dear Ebanine?”

Andrew had forgotten how  _exhausting_  parrying with a Malfoy was.

_Forty-two years, three months and seventeen days._

“Long enough,” he says.

They had met at Hogwarts and had been married the summer after graduation for the sweetest few years of Andrew’s life. He had — in the naive way that young people usually do — thought that was how the rest of his life would always be; gentle and easy, born along in the haze of true, genuine love. Of course, life also has its own way of teaching lessons. They had wanted children, had talked about it when they were too young, just fifteen, had known and planned, and been anxious when those plans refused to come together.

Like fools, they kept trying, believing themselves entitled to what everyone else seemed to have, ignorant of what they possessed instead.

No-one is permitted to ever have it all.

He had never seen her happier than when the news finally came that they had conceived, and she stayed smiling like that all the way through, even as she faded before his eyes. It felt like an illusion — Ebanine could not see it in herself — but Andrew  _knew_  her. He should’ve said something, done something,  _stopped all of it somehow_. But he didn’t. And it took her. Both of them. And suddenly he was alone.

Twenty-years old and a widower.

His mother tried, as mother’s do, to patch him up with her friends’ daughters. She tried persistently for thirty-eight years and was completely baffled — as the rest of the Wizarding Society was —when he set his sights on one of the Parkinson girls, the middle one with the sour look and the  _reputation,_  who was always seen in the company of the equally reputable son of the Serial Widow Beronique Zabini. Very distinctly  _un_ married.

Andrew and Pansy met — for want of a better word — at a party neither of them wanted to attend. He’d gone because it was The Right Thing To Do, and he was prone to not leaving the house until it got unhealthy. Pansy was there because Blaise had insisted, enticing her with the promise of wine and rich men, both of which she was particularly partial to.

Andrew insists he noticed her long before she noticed him. Pansy says he’s getting addled in his old age.

Andrew knows he’s right.

There is a difference between Pansy who knows she’s being looked at and Pansy alone, and it was the former who Andrew’s gaze fell upon immediately.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, almost camouflaged against the heavy dark-purple velvet drapes. Her chin was tilted down towards the drink in her hand, dark hair curtaining her face, but her eyes were up and watchful. One arm a tight line of defense across her chest. He knew her, of course. Her parents — when they were alive — had been part of the same circles he reluctantly frequented. Important, boring people. He remembered Pansy with her sisters, tied up in restricting dresses with sashes and bows that only emphasized the scowl on her face. The dress had changed, but the expression remained the same — the disdain for everyone in the vicinity and the aggressive determination to exact revenge by taking all she could. He watched her eyes flick from guest to guest, calculating in a way that seemed to have been particularly cultivated in the most recent Slytherin generation of. Their ambition did not come from greed, as it had in so many of their parents, but from pain, from the generation of child-soldiers no-one realized they’d created until it was too late. They were the neglected pets, pampered and brutalized, both starved for affection and terrified of it. Hungry and fearful and dangerous, and completely unequipped to cope alone. Andrew had pitied them from afar as they drifted from the confines of Hogwarts and broke free from the worst of their parents’ shackles into the adult world, and — for the first time — he was glad he had not sent a child of his own into that fray. Even the most protected had not come through unscathed.

And then suddenly she was there at his side, looking down at him and looking entirely different. She smiled, teeth white behind red lips.

“Miss Parkinson,” said Andrew before she could take the first word.

It had thrown her, that he knew who she was. The briefest blaze of doubt flashed across her face and in that moment she looked like herself again — Pansy alone — before it passed and she was back to the perfectly crafted version once more.

“You look lonely,” she said. “Drink?”

He raised his glass, half in a toast, half in a question, and she took it from him, replacing it with her own. She’s downed the contents before he’d raised his to his lips.

Andrew didn’t try not to stare. She was a striking image, all red and black and white, like a painting that looked eerily real until you wandered too close and noticed the delicate brush work.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said in a way which implied everything. “You’re always alone.”

“Perhaps I prefer it that way.”

“Perhaps.” She perched on the arm of the sofa by his elbow. “But you’re still here.”

“Are you here because you want to be or because you ought to be?”

The grace of a tooth upon her lip before she smiled and said, “Yes.”

Andrew laughed, surprised and loud and real, and Pansy’s smile — for less than a second — became real too.

He was no fool; Andrew knew exactly what he was to her and why she had stooped to bestow her attention upon him. But, for one evening, it couldn’t hurt to enjoy it for what it was without pretense or guile. The next time they happened to be in the same room, no doubt she would be latching onto another man’s arm, her head tilted at precisely the right angle so her eyes caught the lamplight and set them sparkling. But, for tonight, they sparkled for him.

It was only temporary. It didn’t matter that he was forty-years older, that she was angling for something more substantial than attention, that once this party was over he would be the butt of a joke shared with Zabini as they left together and once again Andrew would be alone. He knew all of that, and that was fine with him. It was, after all, only temporary.

Except it wasn’t.

They drank together, talked only with each other, he told her everything she asked about, watched as she flirted as though from a distance and, against his will, Andrew felt himself falling for her, fighting for a glimpse of that genuine smile, rarer than a Phoenix’s tear. By the end of the night, he was ready to commit to spending the rest of his life working for it.

“Can I write to you?” he asked as he helped her into her cloak.

She looked back and up at him over her shoulder, assessing his worth. “No,” she said finally. “But you may take me out for dinner tomorrow.”

“No,” said Andrew. “But you may come to my house and I will cook for you.”

Her eyes narrowed in instinctive suspicion and she turned away, leaving without a last word.

Andrew made the categorical decision  _not_  to think about it or regret or wish he had taken what he could get. He’d already been given more than he’d expected. That was enough. It would have to stay enough.

The next day at six thirty-seven in the evening, Pansy Parkinson showed up on his doorstep.

Andrew had not cooked. There was no point when it was just him, and if he’d been in charge he’d’ve just had toast. As it was, the house-elves had made enough lasagne to last a week.

“Miss Parkinson.”

“You promised me dinner.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

“If you try and touch me,” she said flatly, stepping up and into the hall, unbuttoning her cloak as she went, “I know someone who will kill you.”

Andrew took her cloak from her and hung it on the coat-stand next to his.

She stayed until past midnight. They sat in the kitchen, drinking wine with dinner, then coffee for the rest of the night. Caffeine, as it happened, loosened Pansy’s tongue far more effectively than alcohol. Whereas the night before she had pushed Andrew to do most of the talking — as deathly boring as he knew his life was — that night was hers to return the favor. She told him of her travels across the continent, of her time in Paris, Barcelona and Berlin — Barcelona being the surprising favourite — and how she dislikes London most of all.

“I can’t get comfortable,” she admitted, turning her cup round and round. “At least in on the continent I don’t expect to. Here it’s—” And then she’d sucked her lip as she’d frowned, the first truly her expression she’d ever shown in front of him. “It’s supposed to be home,” she said. “But it isn’t. Nowhere is.”

She told him how her whole life had pushed her towards being a wife, being a mother, how she didn’t want either but she didn’t know how to be anything else. How, through her adolescence, everyone expected her to marry the Malfoy heir, how absurd that was when Draco was the best friend she’d ever had and why would anyone want to ruin that with marriage? And how Blaise had quietly asked her to marry him one night in Berlin and he had been so sincere she had run away from him, all the way back to England. How she had never told anyone else that before, not even Draco, and she didn’t know why she was telling Andrew now.

“How many men have proposed to you?”

“Five,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Not including Blaise. He didn’t count.”

“Men like me.”

“Yes. Men like you.”

“Will you ever say yes?”

“No.”

“But you pretend you will.”

She smiled then, a sly Slytherin smile. “I’m not responsible for the conclusions other people draw.”

“What conclusion do you want them to draw when you offer them a drink and company?” The question was sharper than he’d meant. Andrew wasn’t angry. He wasn’t foolish enough to be duped, as close as he’d come last night. He knew her for what she was. He thought.

“Maybe I’m looking for a drink and company just as much as I’m offering it.”

“Maybe,” said Andrew.

“Maybe,” Pansy agreed. “Maybe I look for people who look like me.”

“And they’re the ones who propose to you?”

“Not all of them.”

“Five of them.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Do you not know?”

She shrugged, a strangely childish gesture.

“Usually it’s once,” said Andrew. “Maybe twice if you’re unlucky.”

Her dark eyes flicked up to catch his. “Are you unlucky?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

So he did. All about Ebanine and love and loss.

Pansy listened without interruption and, at the end, she said, “You never wanted to remarry?”

“No,” said Andrew.

“Why not?”

“For the same reason you always say no.”

“Which is?”

“Fear.” He said it calmly as a statement of fact, but it battered Pansy like a desecrating wave, leaving her wide-eyed and stunned on the other side.

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m leaving.”

And she did.

But she came back the next evening, and the next, and by the fourth evening Andrew was expecting her. He cooked steak and kidney pie with peas and boiled potatoes. Pansy ate the pastry, the peas and the potatoes and only glared a little when Andrew joked that she must only eat food that begin with the first letter of her name.

When they found each other at the gatherings of mutual acquaintances, they inevitably ended up in their own little corner away from obligation and avoiding bad conversation with people they didn’t particularly care for. Andrew noticed with quiet, unspoken interest that Pansy specifically ignored the interest of her usual marks in his favour, though it still felt too delicate to think anything of it. She seemed — he allowed himself to think tentatively — to prefer his company over anyone else’s.

“She likes you,” Blaise Zabini murmured in a caught moment when Pansy was in the bathroom six months into what anyone else might call a courtship. The young man appeared out of nowhere and spoke as though they were familiar, voice causal despite despite the absolute truth in the followup of, “If you hurt her, I will kill you.”

“Ah,” said Andrew, “you are that friend.”

He wasn’t fazed by the threat simply because it did not apply to him. On the contrary, he was glad that she had a friend like that. She wasn’t helpless, not by any means, but the world had always been cruel to girls, and girls like her in particular.

“When are you going to ask me to marry you?” Pansy asked on one of their late evenings in his kitchen. Andrew had sent the house-elves to bed and was up to his elbows in bubbles at the sink whilst Pansy sat at the counter, chin propped in her hand, watching him.

“You seem very confident of that ‘when’.”

“Should I not be?”

“Do you  _want_  to be?”

She faltered, caught off guard by the question as though she had never considered her own thoughts on the matter applicable.

And then, quietly, “Don’t you like me, Andrew?”

Andrew dried his hands and went to join her, sitting across with their usual distance between them. It had not grown any smaller in all the months they had spent together.

“Pansy,” he said, “I like you immensely. I like you far too much to risk a proposal. If I asked and you said no, that would be it and we both know it. I’d rather stay this way indefinitely than lose you to a whim.”

Her mouth quirked.

It wasn’t the usual sardonic twist so familiar upon her lips, but a flicker of real amusement. Of real affection. The words had not been wasted.

The service was smaller than intimate, with only Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy as witnesses. Andrew knew what his mother would say, and waited until after their weekend honeymoon in the Cotswolds before telling her. She was the first to voice what everyone else was thinking, whispering — ‘ _She is bad news. She will be your undoing. You think a pretty young thing like that wants you for any reason other than money?’_  — but Andrew didn’t care. Whether it was true or not, and he could never be a hundred percent sure, he found that it didn’t matter.

He loves her. That’s it. And, more and more frequently, he thinks she might love him too.

Andrew could not give less of a damn what Lucius Malfoy thinks.

“You are very brave,” the insufferable man says now, head tilted with an amused glint in his eyes, “to hedge your bets on Parkinson. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still standing. You are aware, no doubt, of the unfortunate end met by her father?”

Andrew smiles blandly. “From what I know, it doesn’t seem unfortunate at all.”

The consider each other for a jagged moment.

“Your son has thrived in your absence,” Andrew tells him. “Is that why you are so hell-bent on wrecking him now?”

Their companions shift, discomforted by the abrupt return to the topic they all know it is bad manners to address directly. Andrew doesn’t care. He has spent his life standing to the side of the room, being quiet and polite and entirely passive. Andrew has since learned the rather startling lesson that passive so not mean harmless. Bad things are allowed to happen when good people stay silent.

And besides, he thoroughly enjoys the look on Lucius’s face and the fact that it takes a solid moment before he can collect himself enough to formulate a response. “I can only presume that your loyalty to the boy stems from your mutual preference towards the… _sordid_?”

Because pure-bloods of a certain sort really enjoy speaking in riddles.

As a Hufflepuff, Andrew has no time for such nonsense. Insults are worthless unless spoken plainly.

“It must be a terrible blow that nobody is clamouring for your approval anymore, Lucius. That the world continues turning and everyone seems significantly better without you.” He steps in a little closer, a little bolder, to murmur, “We both know — and it’s only a matter of time before everyone else clocks it — that this is nothing more than a cry for attention, an attempt to claw back all the significance you have lost. Draco and Scorpius do not deserve to be the victims of this childish ploy, Malfoy. I would suggest to anyone else that they look inside themselves for the last remaining semblance of decency and put this right, but I do not believe you had any decency to begin with. I know you choose not to accept this, but Draco has allies. He has  _friends_. And he will win this war you have waged. I would bet every Knut I have on it.”

The declaration comes out steadily, and Andrew is proud of his delivery, of the stillness of his voice and his hands as his heart thudders beneath his dress-robes. Confrontation does not come comfortably but he knows he has to get used to it now he has stated his allegiance.

Unfortunately, Lucius does not look as stricken as Andrew would have preferred. In fact, he looks entirely unaffected apart from the subtle signs of a clenched jaw.

“Having spent so much time in Draco’s company,” he says softly, “you should be all too aware of how quickly and easily one can lose  _everything_. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” The cold, grey eyes slide to the very point Andrew had been praying would go unnoticed, to Pansy and Scorpius. “—I have a grandson to retrieve.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, happiest of holidays to y'all. You guys have made it the best year and I can't thank you enough for all the kind words you've sent my way <3 This fic is so self-indulgent, really just an accumulation of all my years of Slytherin head-canons and OCs, I'm thrilled that so many of you are along for the ride!


	5. Daphne's Wedding: Part Two

Scorpius is bigger than she remembers, heavier in her lap than the last time Draco risked letting her hold him, but he lies against her chest as though this is how they had always been; hungry for any affection even if it’s only hers. Pansy works to keep her heart-beat steady, aware that the boy will feel every flicker of stress. She cannot let Draco’s panic filter through her.  Still, when she smooths back the soft white-blond hair and tries to look at him, Pansy searches for any subtle sign of damage, any small bruise beneath his shift-sleeves, any shadow on his face, even the sign of a fretfully chewed lip. She remembers Draco as a boy and looks for him now within his son.

But —  _thank Merlin —_ Scorpius remains, as ever, entirely himself. A little sadder, a little less vibrant but nevertheless physically unharmed.

Pansy allows herself a sigh of relief and closes her eyes in gratitude. Seeing Draco later will be so much easier than she had feared.

He wriggles to sit up, hair mussed, and his fingers start moving urgently, dark eyes fixed and insistent upon hers.

“I’m sorry, darling, I can’t understand you.”

His face twists in distress and he tries again, though they both know it’s a pointless attempt. They have never been alone together. There has always been Draco or Theo with them, ready to translate. She does her best to look for familiar motions, tries to pick out any of his quick signs she might recognize.

Nothing _._

The more he tries and the more blankly she looks back at him, the more upset Scorpius becomes until tears of frustration are rolling down his nose and he falls forward onto her chest with a heavy breath.

She wishes she’d made Draco tell her exactly what he wanted to relay to his son, even write it down. She hadn’t thought ahead like that, had been most focused on how  _Scorpius_  was without realising that she wouldn’t be able to understand him. It feels suddenly and terribly like the worst wasted opportunity.

“He misses you so much, Scorp.”

She feels the hitched breath as he listens to her.

“He’s doing absolutely everything he can to be with you again. We all need you to know that. He loves you so much. Theo too. They can’t wait for you to come home.”

Scorpius doesn’t shift from where he lies against her, but Pansy can still see the little twists of his fingers wishing desperately that she knew what they meant.

“I need you to promise me something, okay?” She nudges him gently and he sits up in her lap, tear-stained cheeks beneath dark, accusing eyes. He looks so angry. Pansy meets the fury calmly. “I need you to promise that you will be your most careful, your most  _good_ , until your father wins and comes to get you. I don’t know how long that’s going to be, but you need to be patient and remember that he’s doing absolutely everything he can to get you home. You need to be good, Scorpius. For your mother and your grandparents.”  _Please, Merlin, don’t give them any reason to hurt him._  “Promise me,” she says again, insistent, and offers her little finger the way she’d seen Draco do.

Scorpius’s eyes narrow at the finger. He doesn’t move to make the promise.

Through the people, she has had half an eye on Andrew and Lucius Malfoy, watching them talk in her peripheral. Andrew buying her precious time with Scorpius.

But that time is over and Lucius is coming straight for them.

“Scorpius—”

“Miss Parkinson.”

To her relief, Scorpius doesn’t flinch at the voice, doesn’t try to hide, just looks around to see his grandfather as though he were anyone. As calm as Pansy isn’t, with her heart battering a warning rhythm in her chest.

She is good at pretending, Well-practiced.

Pansy raises her chin. “It’s Mrs Davinport now, as I know you’re aware.”

Lucius smiles thinly. “And how long are you planning that to last? Draco is under heavy surveillance, you know. His acquaintances too. I’m afraid your association might delay whatever you have in mind for your…loving husband.”

“Did you want something?”

“Yes,” says Lucius, looking down at Scorpius. “My grandson.”

“I’m borrowing him for the moment.”

“He isn’t yours to borrow,” says Lucius crisply. “And I’m fairly certain the laws of the contract forbids contact.”

“ _Draco’s_ contact,” says Pansy. “Not mine.”

His expression is darkening as slow and steady as an oncoming storm. Pansy holds Scorpius a little tighter.

“You are here only by your husband’s connection, which is tenuous to say the least. Be thankful the Aurors have not been called to have you removed.”

“You cannot simply make everyone on Draco’s side disappear.”

She doesn’t like the smile that spreads across his face.

Lucius extends a hand to Scorpius. “Come.”

Scorpius doesn’t move from her lap, and Pansy is aware of the energy coiling in the boy. Not anxious energy, not getting ready to run, but angry energy readying him to  _fight_.

“Go on, Scorp,” Pansy makes herself say.

He looks back at her, eyes wide and surprised Betrayed.

“Be good,” she tells him, kissing his cheek before pushing him off her lap.

She doesn’t look back to the Malfoys as she rejoins her husband.

“I stalled him best I could,” Andrew murmured with a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry I couldn’t buy you more time.” They wander together onto the dance-floor, a scrap of space cleared of tables and Pansy lets him lead her into a sway. “How is he?”

“Better than I was expecting. Better than Draco made me believe he would be.” Hearing her own confirmation makes it more believable. But still— “I’m…worried for him.” Because that glare he’d given his grandfather wasn’t good, and she  _knows_  Lucius. Even if he is on his best behaviour now, even if he is acting on the very best intentions he is capable of, she  _knows_  him. And she knows Scorpius. It is a catastrophic collision waiting to happen.

She feels Andrew nod, chin against her head. “The sooner this is over and done with, the better.” As though that is only now the case.  The music flows like a river current, and Pansy lets it carry her along, eyes closed, guided by one hand on her waist and the other in hers.

She cannot get Lucius Malfoy out of her head.

This place and these people, the war should have wiped them all out. Sent them right into the ground where they belonged. Right beside her father.

She holds tighter to Andrew.

“You are good with him,” she feels him murmur after a long while of steady, silent dancing. “I loved watching you.”

“With Scorpius?”

Andrew nods.

“I couldn’t talk to him,” she says. “It was useless. I’ve nothing to take back to Draco. Not really.”

“He needed you and you were there, even if only for a moment.” Then Andrew’s voice has a different quality, one that makes breathing a little difficult, one that makes her want to turn and run away as far as she can. His fingers are a gentle grip through her own, locking her to him.

“Pansy,” she hears. “I want us to try for a child.”

“What do you think we’ve been doing?” she snaps automatically and, automatically, wishes she hadn’t.

Andrew doesn’t break pace; his hold on her doesn’t change. He remains ever steadfast even when he says, “Darling, I know about the pills.”

It would be so easily to pretend that those words had not passed between them, so softly were they spoken, and Pansy badly wants to hold onto that pretense. But she has never been one for fantasy.

“How long have you known?”

“A while,” says Andrew.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“It is your business, not mine.”

“What has changed?”

He takes half a step back, enough space to look at her properly and she glares right back, readying herself for the anger he would be justified in throwing at her. There is none. Just a smile in one corner of his mouth and the twitch of an eyebrow as he says, “I think we’re ready.”

“No.” She shakes her head, pulling away, panic fluttering through her blood. “No.”  _Never._

_“_ I don’t want to make a fuss of it, I don’t want it to be a worry. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t, but I want a chance. That’s all I’m asking. Just…consider it.”

He pulls her gently to him and they fall back into step once more, her chin on his shoulder so she doesn’t have to look at him.

None of her friends had ever tried to talk her out of marrying Andrew, and they would have — most certainly — if there had been even a hint of a risk. The only person who hadn’t been sure was her. Even now, as close to loving him as she thinks it’s possible to be, Pansy still isn’t sure.  _‘I truly believe,’_  Draco had told her,  _‘that any child would be lucky to have you for a mother.’_

They never lie to each other. Even when they’re surrounded by nothing but pretense and deceit, they do not lie to each other.

Her arms go up to loop around Andrews neck. Her eyes remain closed, but she finds his lips easily with hers.

Their chances are slim anyway, she thinks as he holds her tighter in a wordless thank-you. The remnants of the pills will surely hold out for a while. Long enough to lose hope and draw the line once more, to say they really tried but oh well it isn’t meant to be.

“I love you,” Andrew murmurs against her cheek.

_I know._   
  


 

*

 

It feels like everyone is talking about her.

They’re not, of course, all eyes and attention are on Daphne and Stephen, but Astoria is attuned to the pointed flicker of gossip in the air. The  _Prophet_  had not been discrete. Had outlined the story in full and spared no detail, and whatever humiliation had come to Draco it was just as much hers too.

There is no-one in this room who hasn’t heard some iteration of the story, and Astoria without her husband only confirms the rumors.

The tent is hot with the thick crowd of guests, she had designed her dress for a winter wedding, and embarrassment is  _scorching._

Astoria tries not to fidget, would certainly tell Scorpius off for the same and, at the very least, as a mother she should set the leading example. But Scorpius isn’t here. Amongst all these people, Astoria is alone. So she fidgets,  avoids the pitying glances thrown in her direction, tries to douse her shame with too-small goblets of champagne and fails spectacularly.

“Tori?”

She is in the middle of a mouthful when someone appears at her side, a delighted question in his voice, and she swallows so fast she hiccups.  For the longest moment, she doesn’t recognize him though it’s clear in his smile that he knows her. Then Astoria peers a little more closely. “Tristan?”

Tristan Morcombe grins at her through the wild curls of his nut-brown hair. He looks completely different — upon first glance — from the neat Ravenclaw boy of her Hogwarts days, but that grin is the same and her name is familiar in his voice. She hugs him tight before she has time to think about propriety, just glad to see a friend that’s all hers and not just another borrowed acquaintance from her in-laws.

“It’s been forever,” she says, pulling back to look at him, taking in the imperfect cut of his robes and the hair that’s too long for how wild it has always been and the tan that makes his skin glow. “What on earth have you been doing?”  _And where were you and why did you never write?_

“Oh, you know,” says Tristan with a sloping shrug. “Wandering around Europe and disappointing my mother. What about you?”

Astoria starts to smile, the joke not very funny but a joke nonetheless and she isn’t in the mood to fight him. Then she realises he’s serious. He’s really asking.  _He doesn’t know_.

She blinks, faltering, then ends up with a slightly cracked, “Not much.” Which is, apparently, convincing enough.

“Can’t believe Daphne’s married,” he muses, squinting around them like the tent is full of sunshine. “That’s mad. Your turn next, I suppose? Anyone in the picture? My mum’s on my case every time I come home, so I try to — you know —  _not_ , as much as possible. It’s good—  _better_  when there’s a stretch of sea between us.” He laughs. “I knew it was a risk coming to a  _wedding_  and, as expected, it’s been pretty much hell and I’ve spent the whole time pointedly avoiding her. Speaking of which—” He grabs Astoria’s hand and tugs her a little deeper into the crowd as she fights to catch up with herself, with him, as though the champagne had pitched her headlong into a dream she is braced to awaken from.

“Because Stephen’s your cousin,” says Astoria suddenly with a laugh. “That’s why you’re here! I’d completely forgotten.” She sighs, feeling lighter than she has done in years. “I wish I’d remembered, I’d’ve dreaded today much less if I’d known you’d be here.”

Tristan grins, a little sheepishly. “Yeah, I try not to make plans ‘else I would’ve written.” Then his head tilts and his expression shifts just fractionally into something that’s slightly to serious to be a tease. “Even if it’s to someone who never writes back.”

Astoria blinks, not understanding. Then, “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He’s still got a grip on her hand and he squeezes. “We said we’d write, remember? We said we’d stay in touch after school.”

Astoria flushes. She hadn’t remembered, though of course she does now. The promise they’d all made each other on their last day of Hogwarts to stay friends, closer than close, that adulthood would not stand in the way.

But it wasn’t  _she_  who had never written.

She glares. “You never wrote to  _me_ , Tristan Morcombe.”

“Yes I did. Of  _course_  I did. I wrote to you every week for at least two months before I gave up and went adventuring on my own. Figured there was no point waiting, and if I’d gone on any longer, Mum would’ve shoved a ring on my finger and that didn’t seem very fun.”

“Adventuring?” Astoria echoes faintly.

“Yeah, just bumming around, seeing a bit of the world, working it out as I go.” Somehow Tristan’s grin manages to stretch even wider. “You remember my angst over career’s advice?”

“You could’ve done anything you wanted.”

“ _Literally_  anything. It was too much. And after the war—” Tristan sucks in a breath and stubs the already-scuffed toe of one shoe on the floor. “I had to get away from there. As soon as possible. Get some air.” He glances up with a crooked smile. “I’d been hoping you’d come with me. Not expecting it. I know your parents had ten thousand other plans for you which did not include gallivanting off without purpose.” He laughs a little awkwardly. “But still, it was worth an ask, even if you said no. I… didn’t expect nothing.” There’s the faintest note of accusation there. Not aggressive, just questioning.

“I never got that letter,” Astoria says, putting the strange light-headed feeling down to the effects of the champagne. “I never had any letter from you. I didn’t hear anything from you after we got off the train for the last time.” Not that there had been time to worry about her school friends when, almost immediately, her mother had set about making plans with Narcissa Malfoy, and Astoria had been whisked into the world of wedding planning. “I suppose they must’ve been…” Her gaze falls to where her mother stands with her father, chatting delightedly with a circle of distant relatives. “Lost.”

“Better start making up for those losses, hadn’t we?” Tristan offers a hand and she takes it automatically, following him onto the dance floor at a half skip, laughing as he whirls her around like they’re children again.

“Tell me about these adventures,” she begs, the music loud and protective around them.

It takes five songs and five dances for the short version — he was portrait artist in Paris (a bad one, Tristan assures her) and a clock-maker’s apprentice in Venice. He learned how to bake the best bread in Copenhagen and slept rough in Czech doorways in the middle of summer. In Barcelona, he tended a stall selling emu chicks along the main boulevard whilst in Berlin he’d been a street magician making his way by duping awed muggles.

“Belgium was my favourite,” he tells her on a spin that nearly sends her careening into a couple dancing at a much more reasonable pace. “I spent a week in a hotel on the water, just watching the canal and writing.”

Her hands find his shoulders to steady herself. “What do you write?”

Tristan grins. “Really terrible poetry. No, really. The  _worst_. But I loved it. I used all my savings to be there, muggle and magical. Still would be if this hadn’t happened.” He waves a hand, nearly knocking the glasses off a woman dancing near by.

“Will you return there?” Astoria asks. “I suppose it might be dangerous, staying here for too long. Your mother might get ideas.”

“Oh, she started getting ideas as soon as I sent back my RSVP,” says Tristan with a laugh. “I can manage her expectations for a while if needed.”

Astoria’s head tilts. “Something at risk of keeping you here, Tristan?”

“Well, I’ve always liked to keep my options open. You know this about me, Tori.”

She laughs. “To a fault.”

“And what about you? I could talk for hours and I think you’d let me, but I want to hear about  _you_. Tell me everything!”

“Oh…” She doesn’t want to. More than  _anything_  she doesn’t want to. He is the only person in the tent, in the Wizarding World, who doesn’t look at her with pity or triumph, or as though the whole sorry situation is a failure on her part.  _Please just let me pretend to be normal for one more moment…_  She is too aware of the ring on her finger and her parents-in-law mingling nearby, and her son—  _Where is Scorpius?_  — and it all rushes to her face in a heat. She tries for a light laugh which ends up three notes too shrill. “You know how it is, so much has happened I can’t even remember off the top of my head. Everything and nothing. You know?”

Tristan is looking at her like he does not know, like there are a thousand questions he’s being too nice to ask. “Well,” he says, “maybe we can meet up in a few days, away from all this distraction, and you can tell me all about you then. I know it’s hard to think in here and I’m sorry if I’m putting you on the spot.”

“ _No_. No no, that’s not—”

His eyes widen in disappointment. “No?”

“No,” Astoria insists for what feels like the thousandth time. “No, I mean I don’t feel like that, and yes it would be lovely to meet up. Away from here.”  _Away from everyone._

“Oh,” says Tristan, his whole self brightening. “Good.”

“Does it feel different?” she asks, picking up their graceless dance again. “Being back in England?”

Tristan looks around as though the whole country is right right here for his perusal and bobs his head in a nod. “Yeah… Yeah, it feels… strange. Very strange. But more for the fact that it doesn’t feel like anything  _has_  changed. Everything feels pretty much the same except for me, and I’m not sure it should. It’s like… it’s like everyone’s just pretending that nothing happened? Does that make sense? Just a lot of the usual chin up, eyes down, let’s pretend that everything’s normal nonsense.” He laughs. “I’m sorry, you were expecting something lighter by the look on your face.”

“It must’ve been nice,” she says faintly, “to just leave it all behind like that.”

“Mmm. It was the coward’s way out, I know that. But I couldn’t stand the thought of getting stuck, and I knew that’s what would happen if I’d stayed.”

Astoria nods. Yes, she knows this well. The feeling of  _stuck_.

“Do you ever see the others?” he asks. “Lydia and Sam and that lot? I kept up with them for a while, mostly through postcards but, well, everyone moves on, don’t they?”

“I haven’t seen them in years,” Astoria tells them truthfully. “You’re right — everyone moves on. Lydia got married and I think she has three children now. I went to the wedding but I suppose she was too busy after that. Seems to be what happens.”

Tristan pulls a face. “It’s so stupid. I don’t know about yours, but my mum’s always going on about how marriage is the beginning of your life, but that’s nonsense, isn’t it? It’s more like the end of it.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

“Really? Then why does getting married mean you stop having anything to do with your friends? Why does it mean you have to stay put and stop having adventures and just wait to  _die_?” He blows out a breath and shakes his head with a grimace. “Sorry. When you’re wandering around on your own, you get thinking. Probably too much. I’m sure it’s not really like that. Not for everyone. Not if you do it properly.”

Astoria can feel the tight line of her mouth and the coolness of her own expression; defense instinctive and hard. “And what would you consider  _properly?_ ”

Tristan doesn’t hear Narcissa Malfoy in her voice.

He considers the question seriously. “I suppose…Well, picking for yourself can’t hurt, can it? Doing it in your own time and in your own way, and not being bullied into it by people who pretend to know you better than you know yourself. Mentioning no names, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Daphne’s got it right,” says Tristan, with an appreciative nod to the bride and groom who only have eyes for each other. “You can usually tell when it’s going to work and when it’s not. I dunno if it’s intuition or all those Divination lessons paying off, but I’ve got a pretty high success rate.”

“I hope it pays off when you get married,” says Astoria, and Tristan’s nose crinkles. “What’s that for? Not the marrying type?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t imagining liking anyone enough to want to spend the rest of my life with one person.”

“I’m not sure ‘like’ has much to do with it,” Astoria mutters and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

“That’s… really sad, Tori.”

“No it isn’t,” she snaps back. “It’s realistic. If everyone married their best friend, then—”

“The world would be a much better place. Relax. Why’re you bristling?”

“I just… You don’t know what you’re talking about, Tristan.”

She expects him to be angry, to say  _Fine_ , and walk away out of her life all over again. But Tristan just smiles and dips his head and says, “True.” As easy as anything.

And through it all, they never stop dancing.

She doesn’t think of her life and her absent husband, or her son who hates her or the dream-world that turned into a nightmare. She doesn’t think of any of it, just lets it all go and finds she can for the first time in far too long.

She doesn’t notice Narcissa until the woman is at her elbow, Scorpius in tow.

Tristan blinks in surprise, of course knowing a Malfoy as soon as he sees one, and his smile splits wider at the sight of the scowling Scorpius. “Congratulations,” he tells Narcissa as though this wasn’t the first time they had ever met each other. “Did Draco get married? Is he here? I didn’t see him—”

Narcissa’s gaze is ice when it turns on Astoria, one pale brow arched.

Scorpius’s dark eyes flick between between the grownups before coming to rest on her too, making the questioning sign that meant  _Daddy?_  with the hand not clutched in his grandmother’s.

Astoria’s face  _burns._

“Tristan,” she forces out. “This is my son, Scorpius.”

Tristan looks desperately confused but has been brought up well enough to know that some conversation should not be conducted in public. Instead, he crouched down and offered a hand to Scorpius. “Hi, Scorpius. It’s super nice to meet you.”

“Scorpius  _Malfoy_ ,” says Narcissa as though there is any doubt at all, and she allows him to kiss her fingers when he straightens up once more. “He is my grandson. Unfortunately his father was unable to attend today, but I’m sure we can find a way to pass on a message. Did you know Draco well at school?”

“No, we… didn’t move in the same circles,” says Tristan slowly. “I was in Tori’s year. And Ravenclaw. So—”

“Interesting,” Narcissa says, meaning every syllable as she scrutinizes him.

“And I’m Stephen’s cousin. One of them. That’s why I’m—”

“Yes, I see, thank you.”

Tristan shuts him mouth.

“Astoria.” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice is as smooth as her smile and she puts a hand to the small of Astoria’s back. “Your mother has been looking for you. They are waiting to take photographs outside.”

_Can’t have been looking very far,_  Astoria doesn’t says. Instead, she reflects Narcissa’s smile, every bit a Malfoy herself. “I was about to come looking for her anyway,” she says sweetly. “I had something I want to discuss with her. Thank you for reminding me. Write to me,” she tells Tristan, and her heart thumps a hard warning at the audacity of doing that so blatantly in front of her mother-in-law. Which is ridiculous, Astoria tells herself sternly, taking Scorpius’s hand. She is allowed to have friends of her own.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me that Tristan had written, asking me to travel with him?” Astoria hisses through the smile the photographer asks for, her hands resting on Scorpius’s shoulders. “How dare you keep my letters from me?”

“I was negotiating your betrothal,” her mother whispers back. “It was a delicate time. Any sniff of impropriety would have completely ruined your chances. Your reputation had to be  _spotless_ , Astoria. What would they have thought if you’d gone running off around Europe with a  _boy_?”

“Maybe you should have asked me what I wanted,” Astoria snaps, fighting and almost failing to keep her voice down. “Maybe it was  _my_  opinion you should have cared about.”

“You should know, at least by now, that when you have a child sometimes you have to make decisions on their behalf. For the greater good.”

Scorpius fidgets beneath her hands, already desperate to be free of her. She holds onto him tighter.

“Tristan was a friend.  _Just_  a friend. You could’ve let me have something for myself.”

“Happily married women don’t have friends of the opposite sex, Astoria.”

She laughs out loud and the camera flashes.

_Happily married._

That’s the best joke she’s heard in a long time.

 

*

 

Draco, Theo and Harry are sitting at the kitchen table when Pansy and Andrew arrive in the fireplace of Number Twenty-Six at half-past midnight. They stop what they’re doing immediately to look around, but it’s clear that a second ago they were head-bent in deep conversation; the table littered with reams of papers.

“You cannot be working at this time,” says Pansy striding straight for the kettle, pausing only to kiss first Draco’s cheek then Theo’s on her way.

“It’s the easiest time to get together,” says Harry. “Once Ginny and the kids are asleep.” He gives a crooked smile. “Not like I have a job to get up and go to these days.”

“Theo’s always been an owl anyway,” says Draco. “And I’m not exactly sleeping well at the moment. I’d rather use the time to be productive.”

Pansy hums her disapproval and unpins her earrings as Andrew tugs off his scarf and joins the others at the table.

“How’s it coming along?” he asks, nodding to the papers.

“It’s…coming,” says Draco a little hesitantly, pushing up his glasses to look around at the chaos. Half the pages are crumpled balls of discarded drafts. “I’m afraid none of us really know what we’re doing, but we’re learning as we go. I think. I hope.” His hand finds Theo’s and their fingers lock. “It’s a start, anyway, which is more than we had before. Progress and all that”

“May I see?” Andrew asks with a hand out, and he reads thoughtfully whilst Draco turns his attention to Pansy.

“Did you see him, Pans?”

She glances back, a heaped spoon of tea-leaves in hand.

Draco is halfway from his seat, desperate for any crumb of information, with Theo beside him looking just as hungry. Potter too. It must’ve been hell waiting for them to come back from the wedding.

“Yes,” she says. “Though only briefly, there wasn’t much opportunity with your lovely family circling like sharks.” She winces, reminding herself that this is not the time for flippancy. “He looks well,” she promises, moving to touch Draco’s shoulder. “At least, as well as he possibly can be given the circumstances. He misses you terribly, that much is clear, but he isn’t— I don’t think they’ve—” She grimaces, swallowing the words with a mouthful of scalding tea and compromising with a repeated, “He looks well, Draco.”

“Good. That’s good,” says Theo, nudging Draco. “Isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” says Potter quickly. “That’s better than any of us expected.”

And they’re all looking at Draco— even Andrew’s gaze rises from the page to cross the table — but Draco isn’t giving them anything.

Until, tight with reluctance, “How can you be sure?”

Pansy frowns. “How can I be sure of what?”

“That he’s alright. How can you be sure?”

“Draco, I know what to look for.”

“You think they don’t know how to be careful?” Draco’s voice is more brittle with each word; his unconscious grip on Theo’s hand tightening until Theo has to grit his teeth. “You think they’d be stupid enough t-to hit him where it’s visible? You don’t  _see_  everything, and it’s not as though you can ask him, and it’s not as though — even if you could — he could tell you—”

“Draco, Scorpius isn’t  _you.”_

The silence falls thick and heavy and uncomfortable, and long after it got unbearable, Andrew offers, “This is a very strong start—”

“No,” Pansy snaps at him. “We are not finished with this conversation.” To Draco, “There is absolutely  _nothing_  I could possibly have gleaned that would satisfy you, and you  _know_  that. Do you know how much Andrew and I risked just by being there, just to snatch one moment to remind your son that you love him? Because that was all I could do, and you  _know_  that. My diagnosis — and, honestly I think I have a pretty decent understanding when it comes to such things — is that Scorpius is okay. Not perfect, not necessarily happy, but physically unharmed. Maybe I’m wrong. I accept I could be wrong. But there’s nothing any of us can do about it one way or the other. That boy is  _strong_ , Draco. Give him more credit. And give me more credit too. I can only describe my observations, and I’m sorry that’s not enough but we both knew it wouldn’t be.”

The day has been too long and too much, and this is just the icing on the damned wedding cake.

Pansy sips her tea, cupping the mug harder than is comfortable to hide her shaking hands.

“Scorpius wouldn’t hide it,” Theo murmurs rubbing Draco’s hand as though trying to rub warmth into it. “If they were hurting him, he would’ve let Pansy know somehow.”

Draco turns the glare straight onto Theo and demands, “ _How_? How can you be so sure?”

“I am sure,” says Andrew, and they all look to him in surprise. “Draco, your father is playing a very delicate game. He is working to get all his pieces into place, to ensure that he has more supporters when the time comes to face you. At least, that was the impression he gave me. That is not good for you, but it does protect Scorpius.”

“How?” Draco asks when he can finally speak again.

“Because he needs to discredit every word you speak. He needs to prove you wrong. To everyone. Including your son.”

Everyone is staring at Andrew, but Pansy’s eyes are on Draco.

“So you think Scorp’s safe?” says Potter.

“Safe is… subjective,” Andrew replies with careful diplomacy. “But I don’t think Lucius will waste his most valuable piece lightly. For now, yes, I think Scorpius is untouchable.”

No-one voices it, but the thought it thick around the kitchen table — Lucius Malfoy’s most effective weapon of choice has never been physical force, not even with regards to Draco.

It would almost be better, no-one says, if he just showed his true colours once and for all.

 

*

 

His dad hadn’t come.

His mother hadn’t promised, but it still felt like a promise. And if Pansy was there, why wasn’t his dad?

_Where’s Daddy?_  he’d signed desperately at her, only to be met with the blankness he should’ve been expecting. Pansy said his dad would’ve been there if he could but she hadn’t explained how or what was keeping him away, and grownups lie all the time. They lie for good reasons and bad reasons, and it feels like no-one’s telling the truth anymore. He used to be able to count on his dad and Theo, and use them as the post of honesty to measure everyone else by. But now they are liars too.

Scorpius scrubs at his face and twists into his pillow, damp and hot and suffocating.

_‘You need to be good,’_  Pansy had said, her face dead serious.  _‘Promise me.’_

But why should he promise anyone anything if no-one was going to keep any promises to him? As far as he is concerned, no-one has any right to ask anything of him at all. Not his mother, not his grandparents, not the people there in his dad’s place.

They are all liars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for all the love for Andrew! That really means so much T_T As ever, let me know what you think. I am endlessly appreciative of all feedback! (and I'm SUPER excited for the next chapter...)


	6. Blue Salvia

When Harry Potter turns up at Number Twenty-Six with a distinctly Hogwarts letter in hand, Draco nearly has a heart-attack right there on the sofa. 

Potter doesn’t notice because of course Potter doesn’t notice but Theo hangs onto him, fingers twined tight through his own, anchoring him firmly until he can breathe again, as Potter plonks himself down in the armchair, grinning like a fool. 

“What?” says Theo when they realize Harry’s not going to go first. “What’s that?”

“Letter from McGonagall.” He leans to pass the ripped-open envelope over and Theo takes it. The sight of the same emerald green handwriting flips Draco’s stomach and he looks away quickly. “It’s the go-ahead we’ve been waiting for. I wrote to her a while back, not long after, you know, got out. I suppose the start of term’s been busy. I knew she’d be up for it but I didn’t think we should just show up. It’s not like we’re paying a social call or anything.” His grin is so wide and his eyes are so bright he looks utterly ridiculous. “She says whenever,” he says as though Theo isn’t reading those exact words. “So, if you wanted to, if we’re ready, we could go tomorrow. I haven’t told Al yet. It’ll be like Christmas all over again and I wanted to talk to you first, solidify the details and such, but Gin’s fine with whatever. If she’s working I’ll just dump James and Lily at the Burrow, no big deal. So, snitch is in your grasp, Draco.”

They both look to him, and Draco is particularly aware that he isn’t saying anything. The letter lies unfolded on Theo’s lap, open for him, waiting to be read. Draco can’t bring himself to touch it. 

Finally he manages a jolting, “It’s a bit… soon, isn’t it?”

Harry makes a sounds that seems to be trying to be a laugh and snort and he ends up choking.  “Draco,” he says through a cough, catching Theo’s eye, “it’s been nearly a month since we first talked about it. We were supposed to go weeks back—”

“Can we not pretend as though we changed those plans willingly?” Draco snaps. “It wasn’t laziness, Potter, or procrastination. Everything has changed since that evening. _Everything_.”

“No-one’s pretending,” says Harry, speaking carefully as though talking James down from destroying one of Albus’s precious elaborate Lego models. “But I thought you were keen to get on and get going with this. We’ve been working like mules from the moment you got home.”

“Well, yes, I am keen. I know. But—” _Hogwarts._ Draco winces. Theo has been good enough to broach the subject again since his homecoming, and Draco has been doing a very respectable job at pretending It Hadn’t Happened, which includes not saying anything to Potter. It had been shortsighted to suppose it wouldn’t come up again of its own accord. 

“It’s just, are you really sure we’re ready? We’ve barely cobbled together a satisfactory draft of the initial manifesto, I’m not sure it’s ready to be sent out into the world yet.”

“There’s nothing else we can do on the manifesto. It’s perfect as it is, don’t pretend you don’t know what. And Hogwarts was always going to be one of the first steps,” Harry reminds him as if Draco doesn’t know. “That’s where we’re getting the numbers from. Actual research on actual kids. Hogwarts is the base of the whole thing. Come on, Draco. I know you know this.”

He sinks further down into the sofa, mind free of excuses and entirely unhelpful.  Theo’s expression is irritatingly sympathetic, knowing exactly why Draco’s resisting. He turns back to Potter. “You said you’d ask Granger’s opinion on this before acting.Have you spoken with her.”

Harry fails to fight a grimace. “Ye-eah… Yeah, I spoke to her.”

“And?”

Harry grimaces. “She’s not… wild about it. She thinks we should both lie low and try not to invite attention to ourselves. At least until the trials start getting underway.”

Draco shifts. “Has there been any news about that?” News on their situation has been frustratingly sparse, Granger ever unwilling to divulge information that’s anything less than certain. 

But Potter only shakes his head. “We’ll know the moment Hermione does. Last I heard, Luem’s doing her damnedest to delay everything just to fuck with us. Just because she can.” He gives tight-lipped smile and his face grows dark with the same shadow it always does when the subject of Luem and the Malfoys comes up. “Just another ridiculous power-play. Hermione says we’re not to let it get to us and just sit tight.”

“And wait indefinitely.”

“Exactly.”

An pregnant silence falls, Potter waiting for Draco to declare that ridiculous and there’s no time to lose and they have to act now after all the time they’ve already lost.

Everything that Draco know deep in his heart and in the pit of his stomach to be true. 

But the thought of Hogwarts makes him curl. 

“Draco,” says Harry in a voice Draco has never heard before, “I am not going to do this alone. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

“I know this.”

“But…?”

“I’m not backing out, Potter, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I think that’s a pretty valid fear, given the circumstances,” says Harry flatly. “I thought you’d be excited about this.”

“I’m—” But words are too big in his throat and it’s impossible to get them out in any meaningful order; how something is so much easier in theory than in practice, how you can’t just make something intangible _real_ like that and expect immediate acceptance, how Granger’s right and this is absurdly reckless given their current situation, and—

_Snape._

_‘I’m not ready,’_ he wants to say like a child. But that’s not the point. It isn’t about him. It is so much more than him and Harry Potter going off on a ridiculous adventure. And what if they ruin it?

Can’t fail if you don’t try?

“I have a… a condition.”

“A _condition?_ ” Harry stares confused at Draco, then looks to Theo for answers that Theo does not have. “So you… _don’t_ want to do this?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not saying anything much, to be perfectly frank with you. I didn’t think I’d need to negotiate something that was your bloody idea in the first place!”

“Alright, alright,” says Theo before Harry’s voice and temper can rise any further, Draco’s hand a claw in his own. “Potter, tea?”

“Sure…”

“Help, please, Draco.”

Draco allows himself to be pulled up and lead.

There is little privacy to be had in an eight-hundred square foot house with no adequate doors downstairs, but Theo gets the kettle going and the sound is enough to protect a whispered conversation over the mug tree. 

“This is about Snape, isn’t it?”

Draco nods, counting PG Tips pyramids into the Chelsea FC teapot Theo became enamored with last weekend when they found themselves trapped in a little muggle charity shop called Oxfam.

“You haven’t told Potter?”

“Why would I tell Potter?” Draco hisses back beneath the rumble of the kettle. “It’s no-one’s business but mine.”

Theo does not look sympathetic. “You knew the Hogwarts trip was coming up. You knew you were going to have to face this. And Potter might have answers. He has connections in the castle. At the very least you could’ve had him ask—”

“Well, I didn’t did I?” Draco adds five bags to the pot which is at least two too many. “And it’s a terrible excuse anyway—”

“Does it have to be an excuse at all?” Theo asks, voice lowering to a gentle pitch.

Draco sighs. “No. I know I have to go. I _want_ to go. I want to do this. I just wish I didn’t have to do _this_ too.”

“I thought you were sure it was a joke?”

He sucks his lip. Destroying the letter was supposed destroy the risk of returning to this subject. _McGonagall doesn’t joke_ , Blaise had said. Blaise was right. But what did that leave him with? Every time he even comes close to thinking about it, his head starts pounding. 

“What’re you going to do?” Theo asks. “What’re you going to tell Potter? What’s this ‘condition’?”

“I-I don’t know. It was just… something I thought might help. Me. But I don’t know. It might not be a good idea. But I can’t imagine tackling Hogwarts without going there first, to be certain.”

“Going where, Draco?”

Draco straightens up with a deep breath. “Spinner’s End.”

  
*

 

Hermione’s exact words when Harry had asked her opinion were, “No,” and, “I categorically cannot endorse this.”  

“Wasn’t aware we were under house-arrest,” Harry mumbled, trying and failing not to sound like Al at his sulkiest. 

Hermione sighed. “I didn’t say you can’t, Harry, I said you shouldn’t. Whether you realize it or not, you and Draco are being _scrutinized._ Every moment. Every time you step outside your front doors, it is being recorded and examined by Luem and her nasty little team. She is biding her time, but when she strikes she will strike _hard_. And I guarantee you that she is waiting for you two to dig yourselves into your own graves first so that when the time comes, all she’ll need to do is tap you on the shoulder and you’ll fall right into them.”

“And you think Hogwarts will be that grave?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Put it this way — it’s not going to endear you to the Wizengamot if you’re seen to be brainwashing their children.”

“Brainwash— Hermione, can you hear yourself?”

“I know it sound bad, and I don’t expect you to agree with me. Harry, I’ve known you for fourteen years. I know you’re going to do what you’re going to do, consequences be damned, but you asked my opinion.  I’m not going to lie to you and send you off with a false blessing. And you need to make sure Draco understands too. This is not going to help his case. It’s already as fragile as a fwooper egg.”

“Then what would you advise instead?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Go on anyway.”

“Just stay inside and keep to yourselves. Do nothing that might rouse suspicion or conversation. Don’t even see each other.”

Harry laughed. “You’re right. I hate it.”

“And you’re going to ignore me.”

“Of course I am.”

“As long as you don’t blame me if it all goes up in smoke.”

Harry tilted his head and flashed his most beguiling smile. “Would I ever?”

Hermione was _not_ impressed. “I’m not saying give up. I’m saying _wait_.”

“There’s no time to wait. Come on, you know that. We’re not trying to save a rain-forest that’s only in seed, we’re talking about _kids_ who need us _now_.”

“Don’t talk to me as though I don’t understand.”

“Then don’t talk as though you don’t.”

And that was how they’d left it. 

Harry has absolutely no intention of repeating any of that to Draco.  He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, waiting for them to return with tea. He isn’t stupid — tea-making is rarely ever just tea-making, especially in this house-hold. Harry knew that. Harry even respected that. But that didn’t stop him antsy-ness. Whatever they are holding council over, whatever is making Draco anxious, it’s concerning Hogwarts and it’s concerning their cause, and Harry had hoped they’d already made enough progress to get over any second-thought hurdles. 

They should be ready to go by now.

His fingers quicken their rhythm.

It won’t be the end of the world. It won’t even be the end of the work. He’s more than capable of doing it on his own if necessary. And alone won’t be for long — it never is — Ginny will chip in, he’ll work harder on Hermione, and he’ll get over to Hogwarts anyway and sweet-talk McGonagall and—

“Potter?”

Harry rises. “Alright, Draco?”

He’s alone, standing awkwardly in the gap between kitchen and living room, grey eyes down, across to the fireplace, up at the hairline crack in the plaster by the lampshade. Anywhere but at Harry. 

It feels like fourth-year, seeing that very particular look on Cho’s face when she opened her mouth to turn down his invitation to the Yule Ball.

Harry braces himself. 

“I… should’ve had this conversation with you a week ago.”

“Go on. Just get it over with.”

Draco drifts over, visibly reluctant as though there’s an invisible Theo shoving him forwards. He perches on the sofa, elbows on his knees, chin resting on clasped hands. “When I was… _away_ , McGonagall wrote to me.”

Not what Harry was expecting, but okay. 

“Yeah? What’d she say?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly what _she_ said, though that’s another conversation entirely. Rather, it was…” Draco twitches, swallowing hard. Then, on a deep breath, he straightens up to say, “Snape.”

“Say what now?”

“I know. It’s a bit… much. I thought it was a joke, at first. But I’m not sure— Honestly, I’m not sure about anything, and if we’re to go to Hogwarts, which we must of course, as soon as possible, I have to— I have to know. For certain. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I’m… not sure I do, Draco.”

Draco gives a little laugh, expecting as much. “It’s on the way,” he says. “Ish. Depending on the method of transportation. I’m presuming the Knight Bus will be our best option given our mutual lack of wand, or if you’d prefer Muggle transport—”

“Please just get to the point.”

“I want to drop by his parents’ house. On the way to Hogwarts.”

There is a complete disconnect between Draco’s words and any hope of sense in Harry’s head. He looks back at him blankly. “Parents?”

“Snape’s parents, yes.”

“They’re still… knocking around?”

Draco shoots him a withering look. “Do you know how long wizards live, Potter?”

Harry rubs his head with a grimace. “Yeah, but he was a half-blood right?”

“Think your thoughts before you speak them.”

It’s good advice. Harry scrabbles together every scrap he knows about Snape’s parents — nothing but fragments of memory of fragments of memory tipped into the Pensieve to form the bigger picture of the elusive Severus Snape. There isn’t much, but what there is isn’t good.

Harry winces. “Draco, I don’t know. I wanted to bring Al. You know he’s been miserable since Scorp.”

“Then bring him. We’d be there for an hour. Maybe two, depending on the circumstances, but not for long. It would barely be a blip in our itinerary. Just a-a cup of tea—”

“It’s not the time I’m worried about.”

Now it’s Draco’s turn for complete blankness. “You recall your son’s middle name, don’t you?”

“Ye-es, but—”

“You don’t think he has a right to learn about his namesake? Or did you just want to steal it from someone to whom it might actually mean something?”

Every syllable to fall from Draco’s mouth gets sharper and more jagged until Harry can only conclude, “You’re still angry about that.”

Draco laughs, and the sound comes out as though all that has changed and progressed between them over the last few months never happened. “Potter, one of the few small blessings that came when I found out that Astoria was pregnant was being able to pay homage to the man who made my life a little more tolerable. When I read Albus’s birth-announcement, when I saw what you’d done _first_ , it was like losing him all over again. It was just one more thing you’d beaten me to, another snitch you’d caught from within an inch of my fingers. We hadn’t seen one another for years, and yet suddenly you were still right there, ruining my life. It would’ve been one thing if you’d had a relationship with Snape but I _know_ you disliked him as much as he disliked you. It wasn’t an homage, it was a kick in the fucking teeth!”

Harry winces. “It’s… a little more complicated than that,” he tries gently. “I know what it all must’ve looked like, because that’s exactly the way I saw it the whole way through Hogwarts, right up to the end. But there was so much more to Snape. So much I’m sure he never shared with you.”

Draco turns away, the movement sharp as though an invisible force had wrenched his head around; pink spotting his cheeks. “Don’t,” he says through his teeth. “I don’t want to hear that I wasn’t important, that you always took precedence. I’ve always known that.”

“It isn’t like that either. It wasn’t for me—”

“I don’t need to hear it, Potter.”

“He hated me, I’m not going to pretend he didn’t, that it all turned a big hundred-and-eighty at the end, I just came to realize some of the details I’d never known before. I gave Al his name because I respected him. For better or for worse, he is still one of the bravest people I’ve ever known. And I wanted to honour his memory.”

“You think it was yours to honour?”

“I didn’t think there was anyone else.”

“That’s because you didn’t know him.”

Harry shuts up. The edge has gone from Draco’s voice, leaving only bleak truth. His mouth quirks. “And I suppose you’re going to say this detour will change that?”

Draco dips his head. “It might. But that’s not why we’re going.”

“Then why—”

“For me, Potter. We’re going for me.”

Harry wants to say yes. He knows that he should. That every word of Draco’s argument is valid and by giving Al Snape’s name, Harry owes him the history behind it. But he can’t shake the vision of Snape’s borrowed memories, as fragmented as they had been, spinning a tale of poverty and abuse and everything he wants to protects his kids from. He even considers taking Al down to the Ministry right now and changing that name if it’ll get him out of this.

But Draco is right about something else too: This isn’t about him. 

“Is it safe?”

A pale eyebrow twitches up. “Safe?”

“Yeah. You know… _safe.”_

“Elaborate.”

“What’re they like?”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “You’d think I’d suggest taking Albus to meet people I didn’t trust implicitly?”

“Humour me, Draco. I don’t know anything, I think we’ve established that.”

Draco sighs, folding one leg over the other and settling back. “By all accounts, I get the impression they improved by the time I met them. I know it was a… _fraught_ relationship before. But that’s not uncommon. Look, Potter, I never pressed for details. It wasn’t appropriate. They were kind to me. They were— _are_ important to me. It’s been difficult since… well, you know. Neither I nor them particularly want to think about it and we remind each of… what we lost. So perhaps they were told. Perhaps they know. Next of kin and all that. I don’t know how such things work as far as… ghosts go. But I know that they saved me. I know they provided me with an idea of family that my own never did. They probably saved Scorp too.” The words come out too quickly, without thought, and Draco turns ashen as, once again, the realization that Scorpius isn’t with him, isn’t safe, hits like it’s new all over again. All that Draco can manage after that is, “Harry, I need to do this. Please trust me.”

“You’ll do this without me,” Harry points out. “You don’t need my permission, Draco.”

“I’m not looking for permission, I’m looking for support. I— It would mean something to me.”

“What about Theo?”

Draco glances back to the kitchen, no doubt to where Theo is trying hard not to eavesdrop. “He’ll come with me if I ask. If you won’t. That isn’t the point. You want to get to Hogwarts soon. I do too. But I need to do this first and we may as well do it together. And she… I know she’d appreciate it.”

“She?”

“Eileen,” says Draco. “She reads the _Prophet_. I’m sure she knows about Albus Severus. It would be _polite_ to pay your respects.”

Harry dearly wishes he had a Time-Turner to go back to the start of this conversation and divert it appropriately. 

“She will love Albus. They both will.”

“I’ll need to clear it with Gin,” says Harry because he’s out of all other reasoning and what’s the point of having a spouse if not for a ready-made excuse? 

 

*

Unfortunately, Ginny is far from cooperative. 

“Well, Draco’s got a point,” she says through a mouthful of hairband that evening, face flushed and hair dripping from the shower. “And you kind of owe him this.”

“Don’t owe anyone anything,” Harry mutters following her through to the kitchen and away from the blaring TV, keenly aware of Al’s gaze following after them. 

But the look Ginny gives him reminds him of all he already knows.

 

Theo is Harry’s last resort and he catches a moment alone with him early the next morning when Draco — whose sleep-pattern is currently worse than a teenager’s in a transatlantic long-distance relationship — is still out-cold in bed.

“Have you met them?” Harry asks as Theo hovers over the toaster, trying to catch the key moment before bread turns to charcoal. “Snape’s parents?”

“Only once.”

“And?”

“Well, honestly I wasn’t paying much attention to them. _Fuck—”_ Smoke billows from the grate as though it had been left unattended for an hour. Theo chucks Harry a tea-towel. “Start fanning,” he orders, pointing to the smoke-detector. “Before it wakes up the whole street.”

Harry obliges and Theo opens the window over the sink. 

“Muggle piece of _shit_.”

“You still going to eat that?”

“Of course.” 

Harry winces. 

“No judgement, Potter. We’re living pretty tight at the moment.” Theo starts scraping the worst of the smoldering embers into the bin beneath the sink. “What were we talking about?”

“You’ve met Snape’s parents.”

“Yes. Once. But it was nearly forever ago and I was a bit distracted to really pay attention. It was Draco’s birthday, his eleventh. Did he ever tell you about the Durmstrang fiasco?”

“A little…”

“It was in the middle of all that. Draco was pretty miserable so I went over to cheer him up a bit, give the ‘yay let’s get excited about Hogwarts’ pep-talk. We spent most of the time down the street in the park, but from I can remember they were perfectly decent. He wouldn’t’ve gone there otherwise. He’s always been fond of them, Potter—”

“No offense to Draco, but I know we do have a little bit of shared experience. I know how how skewed your judgement can get and how far half an ounce of kindness goes after being treated like shit for so long.”

Theo sighs and deflates against the counter, head bowed to his burnt toast. “Astute,” he says. “Accurate.” Then glances up with genuine apology. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Potter. They’re important to him. Always have been. And that letter… it threw him badly. I tried to get him to keep it, to consider it, but I think it was too much for him to handle, especially right now. Anything that helps, if you are going to make it over to Hogwarts, can only be a good thing.” 

 

And thus Harry Potter runs out of all excuses and reluctantly agrees to a stop along the way, a short one — the length of a cup of tea and a chat — at Spinner’s End. 

 

*

 

It is strange, making this journey again in this manner. Theo had had to call the Knight Bus for them — muggle transport, they agreed, would take an unnecessary amount of time — and the conductor had given Draco a very significant look when he boarded with Harry and Albus. Harry is still not quite comfortable with the detour but has given in enough to stop asking pointed questions. Albus doesn’t care about anything except _Hogwarts Hogwarts Hogwarts!_ and any price asked to pay is insignificant, especially when it comes with hot chocolate and marshmallows and whipped cream and sprinkles. Harry sits with him and tries to help him not spill as they set off on the first leg of their journey, leaving Draco by himself in the seat in front.

It’s better this way. Gives him time to breathe and think.

He isn’t nervous about the visit, despite the embarrassing length of time since his last. He knows Eileen and Tobias understand, that they feel as he does and would’ve made contact if they didn’t. It was difficult for all of them, and Draco knows he reminds them of the loss just as they remind him.  Still, this journey is familiar and strange and not one he ever expected to make again. Not like this. Not on the Knight Bus. It’s different, being able to Apparate right outside the door, to arrive like an adult of their own volition.

His journeys on the Knight Bus have always made him feel out of his own control, especially the ones to Spinner’s End. 

The first he barely remembers, most of it torn out of him when they didn’t know how else to help him cope, just snatches. Being eight and being frightened. Hands on him and _silencio_ , opening his mouth to scream and nothing coming out. Fingers in his hair and the darkness of the pillow, and the murmuring of that man he’s tried to forget and can’t because how can he? Even when everything else was snipped away in pieces. Hot in his ear and _don’t pretend you don’t want this. Don’t lie._ And, _Owe. You owe me, Draco._ And then pain and being so scared he thought he was going to die and wished he would and _help me!_ even though no-one would even if he could make a sound and no-one would no-one would—

And then magic in a burst, ripping out of him, exploding in a snarl, and then Father and Snape, and they saw, they knew, and Father’s , “Get him out of here,” and being picked up and the prickling pain of being touched and so scared so fucking scared—

And then the sway of the Knight Bus. 

Snape’s arm around his shoulders.

“Can you walk?”

He nodded. 

“Another one your strays, Severus?” said the woman in the doorway, arms a straight line across her chest.

“This is Draco. The one I told you about.”

“Lucius’s boy?”

He didn’t have the energy to look up at her. Just leaned against Snape and waited. 

She sighed, moving to let them in.

Draco slept. For days, it felt like. Buried beneath blankets on the sofa by the fireplace in the living room, the grownups coming and going around him, talking in hushed whispers he wasn’t supposed to be listening to except he caught his name in every syllable. Even Father came for a moment though not to see him. Only to say, “I fixed it,” and, “I— I need you to keep him here. For a while. I can’t see him, Severus.”

They thought Draco wasn’t listening. 

“Lucius, he needs _you_. He needs to know that this isn’t his fault and he needs to hear it from _you_.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Tell him that.”

“Tell him yourself—”

 “I need more time.”

So Draco stayed at Spinner’s End and tried to forget and tried to heal, and it was good being in a place without ghosts. Easier to forget and pretend it hadn’t happened.

But it had, and going back to the Manor felt like he’d never left and nothing had changed even though Dr Southard was gone and Father _promised_ he wasn’t coming back. It didn’t feel like that. Not alone in his bedroom, with residual magic still lingering like stale smoke in the air. It was always difficult, being at home, but now it was impossible. Everything was a threat, every one of his senses heightened beyond control. Not just Father, or Southard, or Snape not being there, but all of them at once and there was no reprieve and the more Draco struggled, the more his father struggled with him, and the loop they found themselves in was tight and choking. Southard was gone, said Lucius, therefore it should be easy to pretend none of it ever happened. A blip. Nothing more. He couldn’t see the ghosts, didn’t believe they were real when Draco could _feel_ them creeping up his skin, setting his magic a-spark. It just made his father angry, like Draco wasn’t trying, like Draco was hanging onto that time on purpose, to garner undeserved attention and sympathy that Lucius had never been capable of giving in the first place. 

The battle was hard fought, and there was no way Draco could ever win against his father. He’d stopped caring. _Just die already_. That was how Snape found him when he finally deigned to return on leave from his new position at Hogwarts, from a more important job and more important children. “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll jump,” Draco had said, one leg over the window-ledge of his tower bedroom. He meant it. He wasn’t even scared about it. Father had given Snape five minutes to talk sense into him and Draco didn’t want to hear it. Not from Snape. Not from anyone. He was tired and cold, and had no expectation that Snape would do anything other than hesitate and apologize and say, “You know I can’t.” He’d thought he’d known how it go — just the way it always went.

It didn’t.

A half beat of hesitation, then Snape said, “Fine.”

There wasn’t time to feel hopeful or to realize that that suddenly everything was different and finally — _finally_ — someone was pulling through for him. Their five minutes were already up and there were footsteps on the stairs, and they had to move _quickly_. 

A curse felled Lucius and then they were on their way, off the estate and onto the Knight Bus, and Draco had never seen Snape angry before. Not at him. But he was. Furious at the position Draco had put him in, and the tension thickened the air around them until by the end of the journey it was impossible to breathe, impossible not to doubt himself, that maybe it would be better if he’d just jumped. Especially when they got to the front door of Number Five, Snape rapped on the knocker, and Disapparated. Leaving Draco on the doorstep. 

He was at Spinner’s End longer that time, nearly a month, and it was Eileen who advocated for him when Lucius came demanding his return. She negotiated stringent conditions, the only enforceable one being the one long weekend a month at Spinner’s End. Friday to Monday. Enough time to reset and forgive the worst of each other. 

It was a holiday in another life and Draco survived by those weekends, especially during term-time when there wasn’t a hope of Snape coming to see him, especially after Lucius got serious about Durmstrang and couldn’t risk another failed tutor, taking on the full responsibility of his education. Friday to Monday in the little house in the north, watching football on TV and eating fish and chips out of unfamiliar newspaper whose pictures didn’t move, of planting sunflowers in the tiny scrap of garden out the back and digging up potatoes, and going down the lane to the swings on the hill and feeling like he could fly. 

When his Hogwarts letter arrived just before he turned eleven, when it was discovered he’d cheated on his Durmstrang exam, when Lucius had dragged him down to the bottom of the estate and shoved him onto the Knight Bus and made it clear that home wasn’t home anymore, there was only one place Draco could think of to go once the shock had worn off enough to think. 

He stammered the address to the conductor and curled up by the window, shivering in the early summer heat. 

The bus always stopped a few minutes away from the address itself, the streets of Cokeworth too narrow even for the Knight Bus. The sun glittered on the canal as Draco stepped carefully down onto the pavement on unsteady legs. He knew the way on instinct by that point, through the cobbled labyrinth to the house with the blue door. 

It was the third Tuesday of May and they weren’t expecting him. 

“Draco,” said Eileen when she opened the door, and her dark eyes swept quickly and critically over him as they always did when she saw him, checking for damage, for anything she should tell Severus, or take him inside to get healed, relieved — usually — when she didn’t. Now she was just confused. 

He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see through his tears even if he’d tried, couldn’t even work out what he was feeling let alone how to explain it out loud. 

He felt her pull him in, heard her ask, “Are you hurt?” and knew her confusion when he’d shaken his head.

“Is he here?”

“Severus?”

Draco nodded.

“He’s still at Hogwarts, Draco. For the next few—”

She stopped when she realised he was crying.

He didn’t cry, not as a rule, not if he could help it, and usually he could. 

“Okay. It’s okay. Come in. Come on.”

“Who is it, Eileen?”

“It’s Draco. Come on, love. Come inside.”

Draco fell into the place that had become his at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands as Eileen and Tobias hovered nearby, trying to catch up to know what to do. He knew he should explain and apologize for the imposition and try and work it out for himself, but it had all happened too quickly, and it wasn’t supposed to go this way. This wasn’t what he wanted. 

His Hogwarts letter was still bunched in his hand, forgotten — _We are pleased to inform you —_ and Eileen pried it gently from his fingers. 

“Is it about this?”

He nodded. 

“You didn’t get into Durmstrang?”

“No.”

“But I thought you didn’t want—” Tobias started, but a look from Eileen put an end to the sentence. That wasn’t the point. 

“I didn’t want to go,” Draco made himself say, his voice a dry cracked thing in his throat. “I-I thought… I knew I knew it all. I knew I’d get in. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be there. I-I thought I could cheat. I thought if I failed I could pretend it was just by a little bit. Father knew how hard I’d worked but even if he was angry, it wouldn’t matter because they wouldn’t let me retake it. That would be it. He’d forgive me eventually. I’d go to Hogwarts. I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d—” He shuddered, the vision of his father’s face as he’d looked over the transcript bright behind Draco’s eyes. “He knows what I did. That I did it on purpose.”

“Draco, did he hurt you?” Eileen asked again, more instant, more concerned.

“No. No, he didn’t… He didn’t do anything. Just—” More tears that he couldn’t quite justify. “He said I’d made my choice. That that was it and he’d had enough and I wasn’t to come back. Not ever.” It hurt his chest, his lungs, his heart. And it was so stupid. He didn’t even want to be there, at the Manor. He wanted what he suddenly had — to be anywhere but at home, to be destined to Hogwarts, with Theo and Pansy and Blaise. But it didn’t feel like he wanted any of that. He wanted to go home. He wanted his parents. He wanted to be wanted. It was so stupid. He was so stupid. 

“You can stay here as long as you need,” he heard her say. “You know this.”

He did. It was why he’d gone there. 

“When is Severus due back?” Tobias asked. 

“Not for another week,” said Eileen. “I’ll write to him. And Lucius.”

“No,” said Draco quickly, wiping his eyes. “Don’t. Please don’t. Not yet.” Whatever chance he had at being forgiven, it would be wasted if he tried too soon. 

It didn’t feel like a holiday this time. He felt stuck and displaced, even when Severus came back, even when Theo visited for his birthday and tried to get him excited about Hogwarts and how they were actually really going together and how it was so _soon!_ All Draco could think about was how there had been no response from his parents, how they hadn’t even sent a card for his birthday, how Severus had gone to the Manor a month later to try and negotiate anything and had returned only with a dark expression, disappearing into the kitchen to have a hushed conversation with Eileen and Tobias. How the conclusion was that Draco would stay at Spinner’s End until term started in September. How they still didn’t want anything to do with him. They didn’t talk about the future. 

But they treated him as though he belonged there, as though he always had and — in a way — he _had_ always belonged there. He had his own bedroom upstairs, his own seat at the table, his own sunflowers in the garden. His place on the sofa was next to Tobias in front of the TV and he was included in their routine. But his two different lives didn’t touch. Draco had none of his things from the Manor, none of the clothes he wore at home — just the bits and pieces they’d picked up over the years so he didn’t have nothing when he was there. He didn’t feel like himself even when he was forced to accept the possibility that his life in Malfoy Manor might well be over for good. 

Spinner’s End was a place without ghosts, but it was also limbo — a space trapped between worlds. 

It is just as strange now as it ever was, made more so by his companions. 

The disembark in silence and stand by the canal as the bus vanishes into the air. 

Harry carries Albus high and close, as though afraid the boy will be snatched. 

He is expecting the worst, Draco thinks wryly.

He wishes Scorpius was with them. 

Draco has thought often about bringing Scorpius to Spinner’s End but never found the right moment. He knows his mother would never approve and, by extension, neither would Astoria. By the time they didn’t matter, it was too late. 

He should’ve been stronger earlier. 

He should’ve done a lot of things differently. 

“This way,” he says, turning down the first street into the labyrinth. “It isn’t far.”

Harry follows Draco with Al in his arms, a strange stirring in his chest. He cannot shake the feeling that he has been here before, and it’s only when his eyes settle on the tall chimney silhouetted against the horizon that he realises he has. A long time ago with the Dursleys. And then all the pieces fall together and he wishes they’d done so earlier because he needs time to catch his breath. 

_This is where his mother grew up._  

Albus stares at him, green eyes wide with concern. “You okay, Dad?” Their faces are level. There is no hiding. 

“Fine, Al, just—” _Did she walk on these stones? Along this river? Turning into this street?_

Snape’s memories are his own for a sharp moment, the red-head girl’s laughing face turned back towards him as she runs the cobbles. He hadn’t paid attention when he’d been here before, drifting along behind the Dursleys for reasons he never dared ask. They lead, he followed, drifting along in his own world and trying to exist in theirs as little as possible. Why had they come? Family?

Does he have family here? 

Another jolt in the chest.

Family has always been something he’s accumulated as he’s grownup, not something to be born with. Not bound by blood apart from the kids. But maybe— But what if—

“Harry?” Draco has stopped, is looking back at him, as concerned as Albus, and comes back the short distance. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“No.” He sighs and lets himself admit, “No, I’m not.”

“They’re good people. I know you think—”

“It’s not that. Not them.”

Draco’s head tilts in a question. 

“It’s just… I think… Well, no, I _know_ , this is where my mum’s from.”

The moment freezes, then Draco says, “Oh.”

“They were friends. Once. Her and Snape. Here.”

“I didn’t know that, Potter.”

“Yeah.” Then, “Do you think they knew her?”

“Snape’s parents?”

Harry nods. 

“Perhaps,” says Draco. “You can ask them.”

That feels big and all too soon. 

He wishes he’d never agreed to this. At least that he’d negotiated that they do this at a later point when he’d had more time to work his way up to it.

They start again, more slowly — Draco falling back to match Harry’s reluctant gait so they are walking together. 

Then he asks quietly, “How do you know that? About Snape and your mother, I mean?”

Because, of course, they’d never had this conversation. 

Harry doesn’t particularly want to have it now either, but the question isn’t going to be left hanging easily. 

“He — Snape — gave me some of his memories when he— you know. Stuff to help me beat Voldemort. Information Dumbledore never gave me. My mum was a big part of that. I remember this place from them.”

A heavy silence then, “Was I there? In any of them?”

“Only in passing. A conversation between Snape and Dumbledore. Talking about your mission.”

Draco stiffens. “Dumbledore knew?”

“He knew everything. Right from the beginning. It might as well’ve been his plan.”

_He knew and he did nothing to help. Not you, not me,_ neither of them say. 

“You are angry with him,” says Draco instead.

Harry sighs. “No. Not really. I understand what had to be done. I just… wish it hadn’t. Sometimes I’m angry about that. But not at Dumbledore.”

It feels pointless to be angry at a dead man. 

But Draco’s eyes are on him, and Harry knows that Draco understands better than perhaps anyone else. But this is not a conversation for now, not with Albus Severus watching them with curious eyes. 

“How far?”

“Just up here.”

They turn left. Each street narrows into the next, the houses smaller and pushed closer together, the bricks darker and dirtier. Most of them very clearly vacant.

“That one,” says Draco pointing to the one right in front of them at the end of the lane before it dips right, a number five painted above the letter box.

Draco walks straight through the gate and up to the door as though he belongs there, leaving Harry and Albus trailing behind. By the time they catch up, he’s already knocked and stepped back to wait. 

“I suppose I ought to’ve written, at least to see if they’d be in.”

“You mean we might’ve come all this way for nothing?”

But if that was a serious concern, it is entirely unnecessary. 

A shadow at the window, the sound of footsteps on bare boards,and the door opens upon someone who’s so very Snape Harry is completely convinced that he’d been mistaken about the whole damn thing and somehow Severus Snape managed to survive. 

Then they smile and the illusion breaks.

“Draco,” says Eileen Prince, her voice soft and warm. She opens her hands to him and he takes them in a strange Slytherin version of a hug. Then her black eyes slide to Harry and the expression shifts into a question. “Harry Potter.”

He wonders wildly what she knows of him, what Snape told her. Draco too. Albus goes shy in his arms and buries his face in Harry’s shoulder. Adjusting him with some difficulty, he frees up a hand to offer to the woman. “Ms Prince.”

An eyebrow quirks and the bottom drops out of his stomach. She looks at him the same way Snape looked at Hermione. Even Draco stares at him like he said something inexcusably stupid.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write before we came,” says Draco choosing, as Eileen does, to ignore Harry and every word out of his mouth. “Well, actually I’m sorry I haven’t written for a while. Especially at Christmas. It’s been a bit—”

“I saw the article in _The Prophet._ Don’t apologize, Draco. Come in. Tell us what’s been going on. You too, Potter.”

Leaving Harry with the choice between waiting outside in the cold with Albus or following them in and prolonging this excruciating encounter.

He chooses the latter. 

The house is more homey than he had expected, less dark and more lived in, small rather than squalid. Draco removes his coat and hangs it on one of the hooks by the door then shoots Harry a significant look which clearly means follow suit. A moment alone with Al as they both grapple with buttons and zips in which Harry hears a man’s voice greeting Draco, thick with a northern brogue that only accents Eileen’s. 

Stepping in to join them, Harry recognizes Tobias Snape immediately, though he doesn’t bear as uncanny a resemblance to his son as Eileen does. The flash of a moment of a memory of a man shouting as a woman and a boy quail. 

_Why the fuck would Snape bring a young Draco here?_

The question had planted itself months ago in the first casual mention from Draco that he’d spent a significant portion of his childhood here and had sprouted quickly from their conversation yesterday. Now it emerges, fully bloomed, and Harry cannot get it out of his head. 

Yet here they stand together with Draco amongst them, as easy with them as he is with his friends, reaching for the biscuit tin and helping himself to a digestive, talking to Eileen as she makes tea.

Tobias Snape watches Harry as distrustfully as Harry feels. 

“I know your face from that paper,” he says eventually. 

“This is Harry Potter, Toby,” says Eileen from the other side of the kitchen where she leans against the sink. Emphasis runs through his name in her voice.

“Potter? That boy Lily got involved with? That one Severus—”

“This is Lily’s son.”

The wealth of implication in that simple phrase is not lost on Tobias. He reels visibly, catching up to everything he knows and everything he’s been told before frowning hard to see what everyone else finds so quickly — Lily’s eyes. 

Harry does his damnedest not to look away. 

“And the lad?”

Draco drifts over to stand by Harry, as though his advocacy is needed. “This is Albus,” he says. “Albus Severus.”

There is not a glimpse of surprise on Eileen’s placid features. She knew, no doubt from the moment she saw them, but Tobias’s eyes go wide. 

“Really? And that’s after our Sev, is it?”

“That is correct,” says Draco.

Harry has half a mind to snap at him that he can speak for himself thank you very much, but it is clear that Draco’s support is the only thing keeping the air congeneal at this point. 

“Potter,” says Tobias again, turning the word over as though to get the full complexity of flavour across his palate. “Albus Severus Potter.”

And for the first time Harry fully realises what a _shit_ move that was. 

_What gave him the fucking right?_  

Albus shifts at the sound of his name, and looks up for the first time at his surroundings and the new people staring at him. Harry’s never heard him so quiet, never felt him so still, little fingers bunched in his coat collar.

“Did you know about this?” Tobias throws behind him. 

“Yes,” says Eileen. “I did notice the announcement in the paper.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Jesus—”

“He was one of the bravest men I’ve ever met,” Harry tries, the words he’s so used to feeling abruptly weak on his tongue. “It’s a tribute—”

“He talked about you, you know.”

Harry’s face reddens. “I didn’t understand a lot for too long.”

“And now you do, do you?”

“I was there,” says Harry because control is slipping like evaporating water through his fingers. “I was with him at the end.”

It is decidedly the wrong thing to say, in this room, with these people.

The air is thick with discomfort and steam from the kettle. Draco looks very much like he regrets pushing Harry into this trip. Not a fraction the regret Harry feels, that’s for sure. Both Snape’s parents have their arms folded and cold expressions on their faces. Albus fidgets. This is not the Hogwarts trip he’d been promised. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” says Harry because apparently he can’t shut up. “He was a hero.”

“He was an idiot,” Tobias growled, turning away. “Let himself get taken advantage of. Thought he was making a difference when really—”

“He made all the difference in the world,” says Harry, and his voice is as strong as his convictions. It has been a long time since he’s had to make these arguments out loud, and never has it been more important than now. Tobias continues to glare at him, Eileen’s attention has been lowered to the kettle, and Draco stares as though Harry is talking to him. 

The three who knew Severus Snape best. 

Harry shifts. “Look, I don’t know how much he told you or how safe he tried to keep you, but I can tell you what I know. And, maybe, you can tell me what you know about him in return. I’m definitely coming to realise that I know next to nothing, but I’d love to change that. I gave Al his name for a reason. We’d both like to learn more about where it came from.”

More thick silence, from the Snapes, from Draco. 

Tobias’s and Eileen’s eyes meet across the room in silent conversation and reaches an agreement which ends with a jerk of Tobias’s head and a gruff, “Alright. Come on this way.”

His voice is softer, a little more forgiving, but still as Harry carries Al after him, he can’t help but feel he’s about to die in the back garden.

 

*

Draco waits for the safe click of the back-door latch before saying to Eileen, “Yes, he is always this earnest.”

Eileen doesn’t smile. “I saw your picture in the paper. We’ve been worried about you, Draco.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Draco lets out a breath, arms going around his middle. He looks anywhere but at her. “Did you see they released Father?”

“Is that how it all began?”

“Isn’t it always?” The words come out tiny and, humiliatingly, laced with tears. He tries to blink them away, feeling like a child again. Something about this place. “It all happened so quickly. I didn’t have time to think. Just act. And I— I’ve made such a mess. Of everything.”

She moves and grips his elbows. This has never been a hugging house, but neither was Malfoy Manor. Draco had always been able to glean affection from the most sparse sources. “You could’ve come here.”

He gives a weak smile. “You sound like Theo.”

It isn’t returned. 

Draco sighs. “No, I know that. Sort of. But they would’ve come looking here too. It would’ve only brought trouble to you and I couldn’t stand that. Potter bought me time I needed. And— And even though it ended as it did, I know it was valuable.”

“He is a useful ally to have,” says Eileen. 

“But that wasn’t why,” says Draco quickly. “It was… for Scorp, more than anything. I knew he would be safe and happy there until I found my feet again. My allegiance with Potter is coincidental.”

“What happened at the Ministry?”

"They took him from me.”

“They took Scorpius?”

Draco nods, tears thick in his throat. They won’t budge. “There’s… There’s an restraining order. I’m forbidden from going near any of them. There’ll be a hearing but we don’t know when. I could… I’m probably going to…” He can’t say it. Not out loud. 

_Lose him forever._

But this isn’t the point.

Draco scrubs at his eyes and swallows until he can speak, voice still shaky but determined to persevere. “We’re fighting them, best we can. I’m not going to stop. Never. It’s just hard to keep… faith. And I hate the idea of Father getting his claws into him. It was bad enough when I was there with him, but I know what he’s capable of. I-I know how easily he can get into your head when there’s no-one there to tell you he’s wrong. I _know_ what that’s like. And Scorp’s not me, I know that. He’s braver and stronger than I ever was, but that scares me too. Father won’t respect that. It’ll just be one more barrier to knock down. One more reason t-to—” _No. Can’t think like that. Don’t think about that._ How’d he do it?” Draco begs. “With me? How did he reconcile caring for someone and knowingly leave them in danger?”

“Severus?”

“Mmhmm.”

“He didn’t, Draco. It drove him to distraction from the moment he met you. I remember. He came home, that first time he looked after you just for a few days whilst your parents were away, and he was devastated. He knew there was nothing he could do, nothing that would ever be nearly enough. He couldn’t change Lucius, he couldn’t take you away, the best he could do was be there for you when he could. He knew that nothing he could do was enough, even if he refused to give up. He kept trying.”

“It didn’t feel like that.”

“What didn’t?”

“That he kept trying.. It felt like he gave up. That he compromised to make Father happy.”

“He compromised to protect you.”

“But it _didn’t_ protect me.” 

Eileen tilts her head, her gaze assessing, then, “You are angry with him.”

“No.” He pulls free of her touch. “Not angry. Just…” But Draco isn’t sure _what_ he is. It’s all been tumbling through his head for months, spinning faster and faster with less clarity instead of more. “I wish he was here. I wish I could talk to him. I wish he could tell me what to do.” He watches for the guilty confirmation that Eileen knew all along about Snape’s ghost, that there was a good reason for not telling him but now everything has changed and here is all the information he needs.

Nothing. 

His heart drops, hot and heavy and sharp with new grief. 

Draco falls into the nearest chair and puts his head into his hands. “I miss him so much.”

“So do I, Draco.”

Because Snape isn’t here, not in any iteration, and he’d hoped and hoped, even if he hadn’t let himself admit it. 

Just a stupid joke. 

Just like he knew it was. 

And he’d been stupid to let the others convince him otherwise. 

“Draco, listen to me.”

He pulls his head up to see Eileen leaning towards him, hair a dark curtain over her shoulders.

“You don’t need Severus,” she says. “Don’t get caught in the trap of thinking you do. Not again.”

“Again?”

She pauses to sort through the right words in the right order. Then, carefully, “You always idolized him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” says Eileen gently. “And he let you. He wanted to be everything you needed him to be. He let you believe he was. And that only made it worse when he proved he was only human.”

Draco flushes, fiddling with a button on his sleeve until it twists off with a snap. The rebuke refuses to come. 

It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t hero-worship. He’d never asked for super-human powers. Or more than he was told should be possible. By Snape himself. 

_‘I’ll fix this,’_ he had told Draco more than once, the promise earnest and true. _‘Don’t worry, I will fix this.’_

More than once, Draco had believed him; the promise quelling the fluttering fear in his heart, the terrified anticipation . He’d clung to his godfather’s words, made himself look into Snape’s face and believe that he would fix it, he would calm Lucius’s temper, make him see reason, make him understand, maybe even make him apologize. Make it better going forwards.

It didn’t matter how many times the promised proved worthless, simply by its existence it was enough. 

“I’m sorry.” Wiping the blood from Draco’s lip, dabbing the bruise on his cheek, cleaning the welts on his back. “I tried.”

Draco believed him. 

Faith unshakable.

Because what could he believe in if not his godfather?

“It will get better, Draco. This is only temporary.”

“When?”

His whole body felt tired, collapsed within the safe circle of Snape’s arms as they sat together by the fire in the nursery at the end of a long day. 

“In five years you’ll be in Hogwarts, far away from here. Just stay strong until then.”

Five years was nearly his whole life-time over again. The thought of feeling like this for five more years choked him. 

Arms tightened around him, a gentle hand on his head. “I’ll be with you. The whole way. We’ll do it together.”

Draco believed him. 

And then Snape was gone — driven away by the unbreachable schism with Draco’s father, to a better life away from the Manor. Away from Draco. 

“I’ll come back,” he said. “Soon. I promise. I’ll see you soon.”

Draco believed him.

A month. Three months. A whole term. 

Snape always came back but it was never soon. Never enough. Just brushing enough to keep the words in the realms of true. To make it feel unreasonable to complain. 

“I don’t want to be here. Don’t make me stay here on my own. Take me with you. _Please!_ ”

“Draco, you know I can’t.”

“ _Why_ can’t you?”

Snape had hesitated, searching for an excuse to get away and leave him behind. 

“You don’t want me.”

“That’s not true. If I could—”

“Why can’t you?”

Snape was a grownup. Grownups could do what they wanted. It wasn’t fair. The only reason he wouldn’t was because he didn’t want to. And he only came back because he had to. He promised. Didn’t really want to be here. And if Draco kept pushing it, kept on wanting what he wasn’t allowed to have, Snape’d stop coming altogether. So he shut up. For as long as he could manage. 

Love was tenuous and conditional. 

Even a half-kept promise was better than a broken one. 

_It will get better._

Draco waited, clinging to his fragmented faith — patient when possible, fighting when it wasn’t. Losing always. But _it will get better._ Not five years any more, just three, two, and Snape would be there and he’d be away from his father, and—

“You will be attending Durmstrang Academy. Put all thoughts of Hogwarts out of your head. You will recieve a first-rate education, and the headmaster is a personal acquaintance. I will be taking over your schooling in preparation for the exam.”

No more tutors. No more reprieve. 

Nothing better to wait for at the end. 

Just driving hard towards more of the same. 

“I don’t want to go.” The words were an illicit mumble next time Snape visited. “I want to go to Hogwarts. I want to be with you. Will you… Tell Father. Tell him I shouldn’t go. Make him see. Please, sir.” 

Snape was quiet, eyes lowered to the fingers he was healing. 

“Sir?”

“I don’t think that would be sensible, Draco.”

“But I can’t go. I _won’t_ go. I have to go to Hogwarts!”

“If he’s already decided—”

“ _Please!_ ” 

“I don’t know what you think I can do.”

“Anything.”

“I will not give him more reason to hurt you.” 

“I don’t _care_!” 

Draco followed at a distance when Snape finally gave in and when searching for Lucius. It was reckless desperation that had dampened Draco’s fear of retribution, but now it had turned to reckless hope. Snape would reason with his father, make him see sense, make him realize that Draco belonged at Hogwarts. 

After the row, Snape wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye and the house-elves weren’t allowed to heal him. 

“We start work tomorrow,” his father informed him when Draco awoke who-knew-how-many-days-later. “There will be no more mention of Hogwarts.” 

_It will be better, Draco._

He worked hard because there was nothing else to do, waiting for it to be better. For the promise to come true like an old wish. He stopped fighting, did his best to protect himself as he waited. To survive long enough for it to come true. By the time the exam arrived by eagle along with its anti-cheating quill, Draco knew every subject inside and out. He would pass with a hundred percent. The confirmation as he looked down at the questions, alone in the bare room that had been prepared for him, filled him with heavy dread. 

It will be better, Snape had promised. But that promise would be broken if he passed, if he went to Durmstrang — as brutal and as cold as the Manor but even further from Snape and Theo and the little glimpses of warmth he’d hoarded over the years.

The quill in his fingers was black and heavy with magic. 

It wouldn’t let him cheat but maybe it would let him lie. 

_Describe five uses of the Corneily flower._

Draco knew five uses. He knew ten uses.

He sucked his lip, fingers trembling, heart thuddering a warning against his own daring, then scratched, _I don’t know._  

It existed now, in ink. Couldn’t be rubbed out or vanished. It was there forever. No going back. 

Draco made himself go through the rest of the exam slowly — Father would question him if he finished in suspicious time — answering each one with a beautifully penned, _I don’t know._  

At the end, the exam folded itself up and sealed itself in the returning envelope. 

Lucius would never know. 

For the first time in too long Draco could breathe easily. 

He was going to Hogwarts. 

_He was going to Hogwarts!_

It really was going to be better. 

In six months time, the promise would come true. 

He’d won.

Except winning didn’t feel like winning.

 It felt like losing everything even as he got everything he thought he wanted. 

“Draco,” said Snape when he finally arrived at Spinner’s End, summoned prematurely by Eileen. “What did you do?” And, once the story had been recounted, “What did you think would happen?”

_I thought it would be better. Just like you promised._

“I’ll talk to your father.” _To make him forgive you._

It didn’t work.

“I’ll speak to Dumbledore.” _To protect you._

It didn’t work. 

“Stay with me,” Snape murmured as he pulled Draco through the battleground of Hogwarts in the wake of Dumbledore’s death. “Let me speak for you. I will protect you.”

Draco believed him. 

Through the fire and the haze of magic, and the fury from all that good thrown right at him, Draco held onto his faith in Snape. 

His advocate. Voldemort’s most trusted. Who took the Unbreakable Vow in his favour. 

Through sickening Apparition from Hogwarts to the Manor, as they came for him — his mother, his father, the Death Eaters — _What happened? Did you do it? Is Dumbledore dead?_ — he held onto Snape and his silence. 

The Dark Lord knew the moment his eyes fell on Draco, all the months of Occlumency training be damned. 

On his knees on the floor of his home, Draco waited to die. 

_It will be better._

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

The promise had long expired now, but the habit of holding onto it like an ingrained prayer remained. 

_It will be better._  

Maybe that meant death. 

Maybe it always did. 

“My lord.”

It wasn’t Snape who spoke up for him at his side, but his mother behind them. 

Draco held his breath. 

"Please,” she said, her voice level and free of emotion. “Dumbledore is dead. The plan was fulfilled and Draco’s work was instrumental even if it was not completed by his hand.”

“The orders were your son’s,” said Voldemort. “He failed.”

“It was my fault,” said Snape. “In the moment it was my weakness that prevented Draco from following through. Punish me.”

Everyone in that room knew that Snape was untouchable. The game’s key-player.

“You want me to punish you for succeeding where the boy failed, Severus?”

“Dumbledore is dead,” said Snape in an echo of Narcissa. “If it had not been for Draco, he would still be alive and Hogwarts would not be ours.”

Draco counted the lines in stone slabs he knelt on. 

_Thirteen_.

“Look at me, boy.” 

Magic drew his head up and his eyes meet red. 

“What should I do with you, Draco Malfoy?”

And Draco found himself pitched into all the memories he didn’t want, all the moments he’d fought to forget, all the ones they’d tried to chip out of him. All there like they were knew.

He struggled. He cried against his will. The Dark Lord held him fast and they watched the past together — the flash of a belt buckle, a slice of magic, being alone, being left, fingers in his hair, his father’s, Southard’s, Flint’s—

“Don’t—”

He recoiled violently, couldn’t stand to look at himself like that, to have that part pulled out from the furthest, darkest recesses of his memory into the open. 

The Dark Lord smiled. “Maybe I should give you to our pet werewolf. Do you want him, Greyback?”

His mother made a strangled sound.

But, in the end, it was Yaxley who saved him. 

A reward, he said, for the successful capture of the Ministry. The promised prize. Greyback was a mere snatcher. Had done nothing to earn such a gift. Would only waste it. 

Draco felt the man’s eyes on the back of his neck. He knew that feeling. 

“I will take good care of him.” 

He was dimly aware of protests, from Snape, his mother, even his father. But none of them had anymore chips to play. Draco was lucky to be alive. They all were. Everything to be grateful for and no right to complain. 

_Imperio_ was a new experience — to be entirely out of control of your own body yet aware of every moment, every touch, every pain — _Silencio_ was not. It was all the same in the end. 

Eventually Snape was able to negotiate Draco’s release and return to Hogwarts, though he remembers none of it. Extended periods of the imperius curse and continuous trauma merged together in a single ugly mass that Draco was at once incapable of dealing with and unable to avoid. His body shut down, his voice gave out, but his mind was a constant buzz of experience. As ever, help came just a touch too late. 

“Draco?”

He was somewhere in the Manor, on a bed that wasn’t his. Waiting. 

“Draco?”

The voice wasn’t Yaxley’s but he still flinched, a spasm that wracked his whole body and set his magic sparking. 

_Don’t. Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me._

“It’s okay. Draco, it’s okay. It’s just me. I’m getting you out of here. Back to Hogwarts. It’s going to be okay.”

_It’s going to be better._

“Drink this and take these.”

Snape was always best at miracles.

Draco just wished it didn’t always come to needing one. 

“I would’ve died if he hadn’t helped me,” he says now, addressing his hands clasped upon the table. “I’m not ungrateful—”

“He wouldn’t want you to be grateful,” says Eileen. 

He hunches down. Though he knows that to be true, it doesn’t feel right. Snape never had to do any of the things he had done for Draco, never had to put himself through the difficulties he had on Draco’s behalf. Snape had no true obligation to him, only that which he imposed upon himself.

“Then what am I supposed to be?” _Guilty?_

“How do you feel?”

“Confused.” That’s it. That’s all he’s been certain of for far too long. And he’d hoped— he’d hoped— Draco bites his lip, then makes himself say, “I-I got a letter a few weeks ago. Purportedly from McGonagall. Well, no. It was in her hand. At least, I thought it was. But it was… It said it was from him.”

Eileen looks back at him, entirely blank. 

“I-I knew it was a joke,” Draco pushes on. “But you know what Theo’s like. He made me think there might be some truth in it. That it might be possible that—” It sounds so stupid now, and he feels so stupid for wanting —more than anything — to believe in it. 

“Do you still have it? The letter?”

“No, I… I threw it away. I was angry when it came. Whether it was real or not, it felt like more empty platitudes. More too little too late. They— No-one wanted to help me when I really needed help, only afterwards. It feels… like it’s always been that way.” He flushes and bites his tongue to keep from backtracking, from apologizing for ingratitude again. “We’re on our way to Hogwarts, Potter and I. I wanted to come here to see if you’d heard anything too, so I’d know whether or not to expect— anything.”

Eileen looks at him steadily, working her way through his reluctance to speak plainly. “You’re talking about Severus?”

Draco nods. 

“He is dead, Draco.”

“I know.” The admittance is embarrassingly broken. “Yes, I know this. But is it not… possible that he might’ve returned as a-a… ghost?”

“If it is,” she says, “we have heard nothing of it.”

“O-Oh.” He forces a breath, then another — _in two three, out two three, with me, Draco —_ and says, “That’s okay. Preferable actually. It would’ve, ah, complicated things, I think. And I knew it wasn’t true. Just a trick. It’s okay.” 

Maybe if he says it enough it’ll start to feel true. 

“I just wanted to be prepared. One way or another.”

“I understand.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to come. And apart from all that—” He offers a tremulous smile. “It’s really good to see you. I’m sorry I’ve stayed away. I wish I’d come sooner, with Scorp. I want you to meet him, to know him. You’d love him so much.”

“Next time,” Eileen says, meaning it. “We’ve both missed you. We would’ve written but we wanted to give you space. I know it’s hard to be here. But I hope you know you still have a home here if you ever need it. Severus might be gone but nothing has changed.”

It’s all he can manage to nod.

"Tell me about Hogwarts,” she presses. “This will be the first time you’ve been back isn’t it?”

Draco nods, grateful for the shift in conversation, to talk about something within the slim realms of his control. “We thought it’d be the best place to begin.” At a curious look, he fishes in his bag for a crisp copy of their treasured manifesto, the most recent draft edited to death by Theo and given ten blessings by Andrew. It’s good. He knows it’s good. His best work to date. Already something to be proud of. He slides it across the table. “Here. This is what Potter and I are working on. It’s a lot, we know it’s a lot, but with Potter as the face of it, and if we can procure the support of Hogwarts as an institution, I really think we’ll be able to get it going.” 

He tells her everything leading up to the moment of decision, the threat to Scorpius and Astoria’s battle for control, about everything he’s swallowed and just accepted as normal for himself and his friends, and so many he’s just witnessed. The culture of silence and how it doesn’t just allow abuse to grow but encourages it to flourish. 

“And I know I’ve perpetuated that,” says Draco. “It was only by being around Potter who has no self-control and no shame at all that I could even think about it properly. Even around my friends who I knew understood, we never talked about what went on. It was all inferences and allusions. And we let each other down. If we’d talked about it, if we’d pushed for conversation and had the courage to say it out loud and actually _ask_ for the help we needed instead of waiting for someone not just to notice but to _say_ something… maybe it would’ve been different. Maybe it would’ve been better. Abuse isn’t illegal, but it’s the turning away and the refusal to acknowledge what’s going on that encourages it. We want to encourage conversation. That’s where we’re starting. And I think that’s going to be the hardest part. The muggle world has the right idea, though I know that’s flawed too, but I think if we can push the idea that we’re behind them then maybe we can get some good backing. Though no-one ever states so in as many words, children have the same rights as house-elves. They are _property_. Not autonomous beings in their own right. It’s…disgusting. And if more people were made aware of it, I think they’d be disgusted too. There’s just no information available. We’re going to change that.”

He bites his lip, waiting for her eyes to return from the page, for some flicker of _something_ to cross her face. 

“I-I know it’s a risk,” he says after a whole half a minute of nothing. “Especially now, what with our own… problems. And I know it’s not going to be easy. Far from it. But there’s no sense in waiting any longer. Not now we’ve decided to just _do_ it. And, honestly, I’m grateful for the distraction. For something to think about that isn’t—” _The empty place in my heart._ “—Scorpius. And this will help him. This will protect him. It’s, ah, it’s all I-I can do.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. He has to keep himself together. He’s done falling apart. No-one’s going to pay them any attention if he can’t stay sensible and objective. This isn’t for Scorpius or himself, or even Susie and Kate. It’s for all of them, all who are struggling and suffering now, and all who will struggle and suffer in the future if nothing changes. It isn’t personal. The moment he lets it become so, _this_ is what happens. 

_No more falling apart._  

He has two objectives — change the world and retrieve Scorpius. 

Only one feels achievable. 

“But it’s not just children like me,” he pushes on. “It’s children like Potter, who grew up unaware of their magic, who were punished by muggles who were afraid of something they didn’t understand. We want to give muggle parents the education and the support _they_ need, to show them it isn’t bad or scary, and help if they cannot raise a magical child. I know Hogwarts sends advocates to some cases along with Hogwarts letters, but that’s too little too late. Hogwarts is a haven, but why should children have to wait _eleven years_? It isn’t good enough. The damage has already been done. Damage that lasts the rest of your life, no matter how effectively you manage to heal. It isn’t good enough. People shouldn’t have to spend their lives recovering from something that should never have been permitted to happen in the first place. It never felt possible before, like it was so ingrained as an inevitability that you just had to deal with the consequences and move on. I know that was something… _he_ always complained about and argued with Father over. But I believed my parents — it was just another strange manifestation of his muggle morality, being half-blood and therefore inferior, that he couldn’t possibly understand. But that was all just another way of silencing conversation. He shut up. I shut up. I never questioned it. Potter made me talk about it, and we talked about what we wanted for the future, and how there’s no point waiting for someone else to change the world, we have to do it ourselves.” Draco smiles then, properly for the first time in weeks. “And I believe that we can. We have the best team — with Potter as the face of it, people will be forced to pay attention. I have experience writing proposals, and I spent my life watching Mother planning fundraisers and hosting gatherings at the Manor. I have the contacts from work. Theo’s an editor and I couldn’t do anything without him. We have Granger as our legal councilor, and if we can secure the support of Hogwarts’ faculty — and I don’t see why we couldn’t — we’ll have the strongest start we could hope for.” 

It feels _good_ , to give this speech almost like a practice for the one they are due to give McGonagall. Public speaking has never been something Draco has been comfortable with — hence the career choice to write the proposals for others to deliver rather than giving them himself — but he believes in this more than he’s ever believed in anything, and they are in the right and if anyone can achieve this, _they_ can.

He waits for her to say so, for the confirmation of the certainty pounding through his blood.

But, through it all, Eileen remains silent. 

The paper laid before her, Eileen’s dark eyes roam the hopeful words splayed across them and says nothing. 

Even when Draco pushes with a cautious, “Is it a… bad idea,” her expression is unfathomable.

Eileen settles back in her seat and her hands fold upon the page. “You don’t need Severus’s blessing, Draco.”

He flushes. “I didn’t—” But the lie is pointless even unfinished. Draco sighs. “I know it’s ridiculous. I know he’s gone. I know that. I just… wish he wasn’t. I wish he could meet Scorpius, I wish I could ask him for advice, I wish he could see the life I am making with Theo.” He laughs, the sound rattling with tears. “I wish he could see this allegiance with Potter. I wish he could be part of this work because I _know_ he would want to be. I wish… I wish he wasn’t…”

“Dead,” says Eileen, forcing an end to the sentence that Draco has never been willing to finish himself.

“Dead,” Draco echos, and it feels like a resolution. 

He came here looking for answers.

Spinner’s End has always provided what he needs, even when what he needs is the last thing he wants. 

He glances out of the small kitchen window to the scrap of garden outside where Tobias stands with Harry and Albus. Draco knows what they’re looking at. 

There had been a service at Hogwarts in honour of the fallen, and a statue erected later. Severus Snape had been, of course, among the honoured, but neither Draco nor Eileen and Tobias had attended. Instead, they held their own small memorial on a balmy afternoon in late summer. Draco helped plant the Blue Salvia as he had once helped plant sunflowers, knelt in the dirt with his sleeves rolled up, carefully pressing seeds into precisely the right place, amongst the sage and rosemary and thyme of Eileen’s herb garden. The choice had been obvious. Severus had taught him everything anyone could ever know about plants and their properties. 

_I think of you._

Anything else would’ve been too morose, too disingenuous, a memorial without memory. 

_I think of you._

“He would be so proud of you,” says Eileen. “Not just for this, but for everything. You need to know this, Draco.”

“I do.”

And, for the first time, it feels as true as a kept promise. 

Draco smiles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Standard apologies for how long it took for this chapter to be done! A mixture of starting a new job (eek!) working on a big rewrite of my novel and wanting to get this *right*. Making Draco face up and confront his feelings about Snape was much harder than expected haha Kiddo's got a big shock coming...
> 
> Please please, leave me a comment. I cannot emphasize how much a note in my inbox inspires me. Even just a 'yay chapter!' gives me energy for days, and I really need a boost y'all <3


	7. On Behalf of Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and most importantly, huge shout out to MadFantasy for first of all being the most wonderful Severus Artist and secondly, doing me the most glorious commission for the last chapter T_T Give it some love y'all <3  
> http://madfantasy.tumblr.com/post/183430312254/commission-ladylilymalfoy904034

 The only place Tobias Snape lets himself think about Severus is here, in the back garden surrounded safely by chipped stone walls. He had to make rules for himself, else he knew he’d drown in them. He stands here now, with the strangers who thinks he knows anything, and tells him the truth. Harry Potter lets him. 

The boy sitting in his arms — _Albus Severus_ — has Lily’s eyes. Tobias would’ve recognized them anywhere. They both do, though it’s the child who looks right back at him whilst his father looks anywhere but. He knows Harry Potter well by reputation, from Severus’s mouth and Draco’s, and in the paper with the moving pictures that comes by grey owl once a week. Tobias reads the _Prophet_ cover to cover studiously in an effort to keep up with the other half of his family’s life, has done since Sev took his first trip in that steam train. It had been his idea to take out the subscription. Eileen was still leery about the whole thing, still reluctant to dip a toe back into the world she had worked so hard to leave. But their kid was part of that world now, and they could either choose to bridge the gap or burn it completely. As far as Tobias was concerned, there wasn’t a choice. He’d made enough mistakes in the lead up to working it all out. He knew what was important.  

Severus hadn’t been what Tobias had expected from a son, but — then again — Eileen hadn’t necessarily been what he’d expected from a wife either. It had all been a bit confusing really. From the moment she’d stepped into that pub — the one down the way, on the path back home from the mill that’d likely never seen a girl since it’d been built — all bedraggled and as lost as a stray cat. Toby’d never been able to look away from her.

“Shuddup,” he growled at the lads on the first whistle before sliding off his stool to offer her the armchair nearest the sputtering fire.

She’d followed willingly, her dark eyes only slightly wary, as curious about him as he was by her, like he was something unusual and not as common as dirt. She wasn’t pretty, not in the conventional sense like the girls he eyed up in town, the ones with the legs and the skirts and the hair that didn’t look real, but she was definitely _stunning_. He wanted to absorb her. Every bit of her.

“You’re not from here.”

“No, I’m not.”

There was a curl in her voice, a soft lilting accent he didn’t know was Irish until years later. 

Like sunshine and clear skies and everything this place wasn’t.

“What brings you up here?”

She smiled and her black eyes were a glint. “I came looking for something.”

“What’s that then?”

“Something different.”

He figured she’d done a runner from something though he didn’t press her. If it was his business, she’d make it so. Otherwise best to let it go. Anyway, it probably wasn’t anything more interesting than a failed engagement or an over-bearing father, maybe some deeper disgrace, but Toby couldn’t imagine anything that might change the way he felt when he looked at her. Every scenario, even the most heinous, he could never imagine not loving her.

Their courtship was short, their engagement even shorter and their wedding intimate. They had their reception in the same pub they’d met in, just some of his mates and his parents.

“You didn’t get any replies from anyone?”

“I didn’t send out any invitations,” said Eileen.

And that was her business.

He was vaguely aware that she slipped out for a moment alone by the river but didn’t think much of it. Marriage was a big thing, there was no pretending it wasn’t. If dealing with the change meant throwing bits of sticks into the Severn, that was up to her.

Married life was hard because life itself was hard. Their house in Spinner’s End — the backside of Cokeworth — was a miserable pit, but it was their miserable pit and Eileen, to her credit, did her damnedest to make it home. She was magic when it came to fixing curtains and holes in socks and making jerseys that were more holey than righteous last for one more long winter. Her work in their pitiful little kitchen made their rations stretch for days longer than they should, keeping them warm and, whilst not completely full, at least not hungry either. She kept them alive and healthy against the best efforts of the miserable Midlands weather whilst Toby watched families and friends he’d grown up with and worked with perish along the way. It was a brutal world, this one, and it was a battle just to survive. Some days — the long, dark days — he came close to demanding of her, _‘Why here? What the hell were you running from that made this place a haven?’_ Though he never did. She was his light and his love, and her business was her past. He and this house and their kid who had her strangeness and his scowl was her present. If she didn’t want them mixing, that was up to her.  

Severus struggled from the beginning.

He was always a strange little thing, the embodiment of Eileen’s peculiarity, and had a disconcerting habit of just _being_ there, silent and wordless, and staring as though he could stare right through your soul. Tobias had a Catholic aunt he had made a point of not speaking to for as long as he could help it, but he couldn’t help thinking about what she’d make of the lad. _Exorcism_ was always the word that came to mind.

Eileen refused to see it. “Let him be,” she’d say. “He’s just different.”

But different wasn’t good, not up here. Different got you cornered in the playground and knocked down. If you were lucky, it got you scuffed knees and a bloody lip. If not, it got you killed. Tobias had lived here every moment of his life. Eileen hadn’t. She didn’t understand, and they’d do Sev no favours by letting him just _be_.

Severus usually got home from school hours before Toby, had usually had his tea and was about to be in bed if not upstairs already. Plenty of time for Eileen to fix up whatever mess the other boys had made of him and for them both to pretend it wasn’t happening. Toby wasn’t as stupid as he looked. But, as much as he didn’t like the shared secrets between his wife and their boy, there wasn’t much he could do until it was right in front of him.

It was a Wednesday evening in the middle of September. Tobias was home and Severus wasn’t. Eileen was doing a stand-up job of Not Worrying — “He was probably kept behind after class. Maybe he’s out playing with his friends…”

“What friends?” Toby ended up snapping. “Who’d want to be friends with someone dressed up in his mother’s hand-me-downs?”  

Eventually, around seven, they heard the front door.

They both waited, eyeing each other then, at the first creak of a slinking footstep on the stairs, they both sprung.

Toby got to Severus first.

He was in, as they say in the _Crown_ , a right fucking state.

He looked back reluctantly when called, obviously in the middle of a valiant attempt at slinking up to his room unnoticed. His mam might’ve let him get away with that but there was no way Toby was about to let this go. The boy’s blouse was ripped and bloody, no doubt used to soak up the worst of the blood from his nose, and he looked like a bruised potato. The worst of it was the wary way he looked back down the stairs at Toby, guilty, like he was about to be blamed. 

Toby always knew Severus was made from a different mold than he was, had always used that as an excuse to let him be and not try and just let Eileen get on with it. But Severus was his kid just as much as hers, and it was his fucking fault the boy didn’t know how to exist in this god-forsaken trench. 

“Come on,” Toby growled, going for Severus’s scrawny wrist and pulling him down the stairs and through the mess of the kitchen and into the back garden. “This ends now.”

Severus resisted every step, dragging his feet. Even the air felt prickly. 

Tobias set him in place by the shoulders, right by the little scrap of earth that passed for a vegetable patch. Severus scowled up at him, shadowed by dark hair that had been allowed to grow too long. 

“Alright,” said Toby, peering right into that scowl. “Next time someone comes at you, you’re gonna get him first. Understand? No son of mine‘s gonna just let himself get the shit kicked out of him. I don’t care what your mam says. You have to learn to stick up for yourself.” Tobias took Severus hands one by one and rolled the long sleeves up until they bunched at his elbows, then he curled the boy’s long fingers into fists and set them up. “Hold ‘em steady, Sev. Plant yourself. You’re a rock, see? Stand like this. Show ‘em you’re not scared.”

As soon as Toby let him go and stood back, Severus’s arms flopped to his sides then dipped around his middle, shoulders rolling back into his favourite hunched stance. 

“Come on, Sev. We’re not going back inside ‘til you get this. Tomorrow you’re going into that school and you’re showing ‘em all what’s what.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“Not as much trouble as you’re in now.”

Severus rolled his eyes. 

“Put ‘em up, lad.”

“Mam says—”

“I don’t care what your mam says. She don’t know what boys are like. I do. And it’s my fault you’re going around looking like that. Come on,” he said a little more gently. “I bet you a whole pint of coke it’ll only take once to make ‘em respect you. One good whack on the nose.” He nudged Severus’s nose with his own fist and grinned when the smallest start of a smile twitched the boy’s bloody lip. “Come on, Sev.”

Severus pulled his hands back up into the vague shape of the position he’d been shown, like his hands were made of lead. Toby adjusted his stance then put up his own hands, palms flat and open. 

“Alright. Good. Now come at me. One two. Come on.”

After a waiver of reluctance, Severus delivered a less-than half-hearted blow.

“Again.”

The next had a bit more heft behind it. 

“Come on. You’ve gotta mean it, Sev. Pretend I’m one of those lads. That’s right. Good. _Good!_ ” Severus found his rhythm, and each punch was a little more satisfying than the last and had a little more sting to it. By the time Toby called a pause, the boy was flushed and breathless and grinning. Better than he’d looked in, well, forever. This, thought Toby proudly, was how a boy was supposed to look. 

He caught Eileen’s face in the murky glass of the kitchen window and winked. 

He’d enjoy his triumph later. It wasn’t often he was right and she was wrong. 

“Alright.” After a breather, he repositioned Severus and set himself in the same stance, fists up. The grin dropped from Severus’s face and his dark eyes went wide with doubt. “Now, when I go for you, you block me okay? Okay, Sev?”

He nodded slowly because he had to. 

“One two, let’s go.”

Severus didn’t block. He ducked and he backed up, but he didn’t block. His hands were up but the fists were gone. 

“Keep ‘em fixed, Sev. Whatcha trying to do? Swat flies? Come on.”

Every time Toby went for him, the boy backed up two more steps until they were right at the crumbling wall and there was no room for Severus to aim a punch even if he’d wanted to. 

“Come on, Severus.” _When had he started shouting?_ There was terror on the boy’s face before he covered his head in his hands, like Toby was his attacker and not _everyone else_. “I’m trying to help you! Stand up for yourself! Man up, boy!”

The last blow would certainly have felled Severus if it had landed. 

Instead, there was a prickle in the air Toby didn’t understand and then a snap like lightning that hurled him back and threw him to the ground, cracking his head against the far wall. 

By the time the daze of pain and shock had cleared, both Severus and Eileen were gone. 

Tobias couldn’t think. They weren’t gone for more than an hour and he knew he had to get his head on straight before they came back, but the moment he heard the door open he snapped. 

It was a shit, hard life but it was theirs and it was familiar and _known_.

This — whatever _this_ was — tore it all to pieces.

One step inside and Tobias grabbed Severus by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall.

“Toby—”

He was oblivious to Eileen’s desperate hands. 

“What was that? What did you do? I warned you not to muck around in that graveyard, and now look—”

“He’s not _possessed,_ Tobias!”

“Then what?” He dropped the boy and rounded on Eileen, one shaking finger jabbed back at their son on the floor. “Did you see what he _did_? That’s not normal. That’s not _natural_.”

“Go upstairs, Severus, and stay put.”

The boy stared between them with wide, dark eyes that sent a chill all the way down Tobias’s spine. Possession, in his opinion, was best case scenario.

“Mam—”

“ _Go._ ”

They both watched him slink up the stairs, both waited — neither looking nor speaking to each other — until they head the sound of his bedroom door closing.

Then he rounded on her, grabbing her arm like she might run if he didn’t. “If this is a fucking joke, Eileen—”

Her eyes were just as dark and just as staring as the boy’s, and suddenly Tobias realised how alone in this house he was.

“It’s not,” she said levelly. “It’s magic.”

He laughed, and when he started he couldn’t stop. It was her delivery more than anything — right on point and perfectly poe-faced. Convincing if it hadn’t been so fucking ridiculous. Magic was for rich kids’ parties and flouncy city theaters. Stupid tricks for people who didn’t need to face reality day in day out. Not for Spinner’s End. Not for his kid. And his head still _ached_ from where he’d hit that damn tree. That wasn’t magic, not the rabbits-out-of-hats-cut-a-girl-in-half kind. That was _real_. 

Eileen still wasn’t smiling, still deadly serious.

“Don’t piss about, girl. What’s going on? Tell me the truth.”

So she did. 

Every last, cursed bit of it.

Where she’d come from and who she was, and how there was a whole world _right there_ that he couldn’t see. And how she’d left it all behind and ended up here, with him, with Severus.

Toby pushed his fingers through soot-stiff hair. “Shit. _Shit—”_

“I had hoped,” said Eileen, “that if he never knew about it, his magic would never show up. I suppose I should’ve known that’s not how it works.” Her eyes flicked up to catch and keep his. “It’s controllable. I’ll teach him how to hide it. That’s what I should’ve done. Not just let it go like that. It’ll be easier—”

“How long has this been going on?” he demanded, voice close to the peak of shouting. And then, in dread, “Who knows about this?”

A flush crept into her pallid cheeks. “I know Sev’s been struggling,” she said. “But he didn’t know what it was until today. I’ve explained it to him now. I’ll help him. You won’t ever know—” She flinched at a blow to the table.

“Of course I’ll fucking know!”

“You never knew about _me_.”

“And that’s something to be proud of, is it? That’s you’ve lied to me for… for _years_? For every fucking second I’ve known you? _Christ.”_ He gripped the edge of their kitchen table hard like it could go anyway towards grounding him. He’d got the table cheap from a mate four lanes down and had spent the best part of a Sunday hauling it back to the house. Just like every other piece of shit in here. He’d done it by himself, scraped the money together by himself, worked all hours just to provide them with the bare fucking minimum, and all along she could’ve… she could’ve… 

 “We could’ve had so much more. You _let_ us live like this. You let Severus live like this. And me… I work all hours, Eileen, just to make ends meet and you’re _fucking telling me you’ve had magical powers this whole fucking time?_ ”

Her back found the edge of the kitchen table, piled with dishes she hadn’t done yet. “It wouldn’t’ve fixed anything, Toby. There’s a price for everything.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?”

“It doesn’t change anything.” And a cautious touch to his shoulder that he batted back and shied away from like she was made of fire.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” he warned, a grimy finger pointing right at her. “You fucking _witch_.” A plate smashed. He didn’t remember throwing it. “Fix it.” A step towards her. And another when she backed up. Another until there was no air or space between them. “Fix it! Show me what you can fucking do, then! _Fix it!”_

“Leave her be!”

And suddenly Severus was between them, hands flat against Tobias’s chest, trying to shove him back, his dark glare fearless with new power. “If you try’n touch her,” he said, “I’ll kill you.” 

He meant it.

The lump on Tobias’s head _throbbed_. 

He could knock the boy into next Tuesday if he wanted, had more than enough reason to, but Tobias wasn’t sure he’d wake to see Wednesday if he did.

Eileen’s lips were pressed thin and silent, then her eyes rose to accuse him.

He wasn’t about to feel so fucking alone in his own damned house.

Tobias turned on his heel, grabbed his jacket, and stormed out. 

He had no idea where he was going, or even if he intended to go back. He stormed through the streets in the rain-chilled wind, down by the canal and along to _The Crown_ where he’d met her, where they’d had their reception, where they’d gone as soon as she knew she was pregnant to toast with friends.

Tobias didn’t go in. Just kept walking. 

The sun was about to rise by the time he’d circled back, and Eileen was still in the kitchen. 

She looked up when he stopped in the doorway.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Thought about it but… no.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t?”

“Any of it. I told him. I warned him. He’s not to be like that. Not with you.”

Tobias grunted and shucked of his boots, kicking them against the wall. 

“I can take him,” said Eileen quietly when silence had lingered too long. “I can take him and we can go. If that’s what you want.”

“Why the fuck would that be what I want?” He could just imagine it — all the whispers behind his back. He knew the way word got around. He never planned on being at the wrong end of Cokeworth gossip. “You said… You said you’d teach him to hide it. Do that. Get rid of it. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to hear about it. We go back to normal like it never happened. You make sure he fucking knows that, okay? Magic isn’t real, and it’s going to stay like that. Keep him out of my way, Eileen.”

It felt like an easy fix but, of course, it wasn’t. 

He should’ve known better. 

Wishes he had.

They struggled on but in a different way, more complicated way than before.

Eileen, to her credit, did as she promised and schooled Severus to hide his strange abilities. Tobias never saw another spark from the boy’s fingers. He saw the resentment though, the hatred that he was forced to be something he wasn’t, something that kept him weak and defenseless when he _knew_ he had the power to defend himself. The fights at school only got worse and Severus stopped trying to try. He withdrew, spending as little time in their company as possible.

As far as Tobias was concerned, that was just fine. 

He and Eileen didn’t talk about it again, about any of it. They both wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. 

Still, Tobias worried from afar. Sev was weird, there was no getting around that, and as far as he knew, the lad had never had any friends. Never seemed to want to. Magical or not, human beings needed other human beings. 

Which is why, on one early evening in mid-Spring, when Tobias caught sight of his kid on the swings up the hill with a red-headed girl, he spent the rest of the walk home grinning to himself.

Friend was one thing. _Girl_ friend was something else entirely. 

_Girl_ friend meant the boy was a normal, functioning human-being despite all evidence to the contrary. 

He smirked when Severus slunk in an hour later, and was met with an even deeper scowl than usual.

Eileen was oblivious at the stove, trying to coax life back into a soup that had been on its last legs three days ago.

“Who’s your girlfriend, Sev?”

Eileen dropped the spoon and Severus went bright red.

Tobias sipped his tea — mostly water with a drop of milk and a speck of actual tea — casually. 

“Don’t have—”

“Saw you on the swings, didn’t I? You seemed pretty familiar with each other. How come you never mentioned having a—”

“She’s not my girlfriend!”

Eileen joined in, standing over them with her arms folded. “Is this why you’ve hardly been home these last few weeks? Because of a girl? Who is she?”

Severus hunched down and mumbled something inaudible, earning him a cuff on the ear from his mother. 

“I said she’s from across the river.”

“What’re you doing knocking around with a _girl_ from across the river?”

“More to the point,” said Toby, “what’s a girl from across the river doing knocking about with the likes of you?”

Severus’s head shot up so fast and his glare was so dark, Tobias nearly winced.

“We’re just friends, okay? From school. She’s from school. That’s it.”

But there was far more Severus wasn’t saying than what he was. Tobias knew that look. It was Eileen’s look. 

“Why don’t you invite her over for tea one evening?”

Severus looked like that was the absolute last thing he ever wanted ever. 

Tobias let it go. At least, out loud. Still, it was a great pleasure to take the route by the hill on his way home in hope of a glimpse of his son playing with the girl, looking happier than he ever looked anywhere else — laughing instead of scowling. He was lucky, there weren’t many who got to have a friendship like that. 

It was around Sev’s tenth birthday when Tobias took matters into his own hands.

He wasn’t exactly stalking the girl, though he couldn’t help worry that some busy-body might get the wrong idea, poking their noses through their lace curtains and call him in. 

“Hey.”

The girl wheeled, clutching the straps of her satchel in both hands, ready to fight rather than run.

Tobias liked her immensely and immediately. 

He stopped a safe distance away. “You know my boy,” he said. “Severus.”

Her freckled face split into a grin. “Yeah. You’re his dad?”

“That’s right. Look, I dunno if he told you — knowing Sev, probably not — but it’s his birthday coming up, and I was thinking to surprise him with a bit of a do. Usually it’s just me and his mam, but if he’s got a friend, I think he’d like it if—”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The girl was practically vibrating with giddy excitement, nodding so vehemently, her fire-red hair was splaying from its plaits. 

Toby laughed. “Alright. Good. Our house is number five down across the river.”

“Spinner’s End?”

“That’s the one. Four o’clock Saturday. I’m… Tobias Snape, by the way.”

She thrust her hand into his. “Lily. Evans.”

“If her parents call the police,” was Eileen’s response to his genius plan, “that’s your problem not mine. And since when do we do birthday parties? What’s wrong with fish and chips like usual?”

“Ten is a milestone,” said Tobias. Then, half muttered, “Maybe it’s different in your witchy world.”

Which, of course, it was.

“Look,” he said, folding his newspaper. “It’s a good sign, isn’t it, that Sev’s got a friend? I think we’ve a right to get to know her and she seems to want to get to know us. Severus is so secretive.”

“You don’t think that’s his prerogative?”

“Ten-year-olds don’t get secrets.”

Eileen hummed thoughtfully. “He’ll hate it.”

“He’ll get over it.”

Severus didn’t just hate it, he was _furious_. 

He stood, frozen in the doorway, staring at Lily sitting with his parents like she’d always been there — a bright fire amongst the shadows. She was oblivious to his discomfort, joyfully proclaiming, “Happy birthday!” and dragging him over to sit next to her. 

The birthday tea was still just fish and chips, but Lily From Across the River didn’t seem to mind, eating chips with her fingers in between questions from Tobias about school and her family and, “How’d you come to know our Sev, then?”

The girl didn’t notice the way Severus sat up abruptly, tried to communicate with her silently to shut up, to lie, to not—

“Oh,” she said happily, “he’s the one that told me about magic. I didn’t know what it was before. I thought magic was just for games and stuff and the things I could do were just… I don’t know. Tricks or something. But Sev told me all about the other world and how there’re hundreds and hundreds of people just like us. My parents don’t know about it yet. My sister does sort of but I haven’t told her how it’s real yet. I know she’ll be mad about it because she can’t do any of the stuff I can do. She’s just a muggle. Sev told me that word too. I’m not sure what my mum and dad’ll say. But it’s been great having someone to talk to about it all. And it’ll be great going to Hogwarts and already having a friend.” She beamed at Severus, and only then realised that no-one else was smiling. 

Slowly, the grin faded as she looked between them.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought— You told me that—”

Eileen stood up. “I think it’s time for you to go home.” 

Lily didn’t move, though she wasn’t frozen stiff like Severus. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re magical. He said you were magical, and you’re not but you know about it.” She nodded to Tobias. “I thought it was all…” _Fine_ , she didn’t say. 

“Leave,” Eileen repeated, unignorable this time. 

Lily, on the point of angry tears, snatched up her cardigan and fled.

“Sit down,” Eileen snapped when Severus started up after her. 

“She don’t know the way back—”

“She knows it just fine. She got here didn’t she?” Eileen snagged him by the collar and gave him a shake. “You’ve been going about telling strangers our business?”

“She’s not a stranger. She’s _not_. She’s my friend. And she’s magical. Just like me. Just cos you’re pretending ‘doesn’t mean I’m not. And I didn’t say nothing til I was sure. She didn’t know what it was and I didn’t want her to… to think it was…” He flushed heavily. “I didn’t want her to think she was the only one. Her mam and dad aren’t magical, and her sister’s a-a— not very nice. She didn’t have anyone else. And it’s better to know what it is than not to. It _is_. I don’t care what you say. I don’t care you don’t want it, _I_ do. And so does Lily. And we’re gonna go be magical together and you can’t stop us.”

It was a childish rant that earned him the loss of the remainder of his birthday, but the sentiment stayed true. 

It didn’t matter how much Eileen ignored it or how hard Tobias denied it — Severus was magical, and he would be so with or without their blessing. Just as he would continuing seeing Lily, with or without their permission.

Which was the case Tobias put to her when Eileen was determined to deny it.

“I don’t like her,” she said flatly. “I don’t trust her. What’s she doing, mixing with the likes of Sev? She’s got a motive somewhere and I don’t like it.”

Normally he’d be ready to agree with her — folks across the river were a different sort all together and they didn’t mix if anyone could help it. But he liked Lily, and he liked the way Sev was when he was with her. Magic or not. 

“And maybe we should start talking about that—”

“ _No_ ,” said Eileen. Then she glared at him like it was his fault. “After all that last time, _now_ you want to talk about it?”

“It was a… a lot, all at once. I’ve had time to get my head around it—”

“No,” said Eileen in the voice that meant ‘and that is the end of it’.

Usually she was right, and Toby was more than happy to defer to her much better judgement, but every bit of him knew that this was not the end of it. Far from it, in fact. 

Severus was curled up unhappily on his bed by the drafty window, not reading the book splayed out in front of him when Tobias let himself in. The boy stiffened at the intrusion. He didn’t look up, but Tobias could feel the sharp attention fixed on him like a needle. 

“You’re not in trouble,” he began. “Not with me anyhow. Your mam’s… not very happy. But she’ll come ‘round.” The bed gave a complaining squeak when he perched on the edge. “So I suppose this magic thing’s sticking around is it?”

Severus stayed silent, dark eyes full of suspicion, like Toby’d been sent up to try and trick him. He was a smart kid, smarter than he’d ever been.  Tobias shifted. He wasn’t a talker, especially not about important things like this. Eileen wasn’t either so, generally, they just didn’t.

That, apparently, wasn’t going to do the trick. 

“How’d you find out about your friend?”

Severus gave a shrug. “I could just tell. Even before I saw her do anything. And then she did and she… she wasn’t scared by it. It wasn’t like it was with me. She didn’t know what it was but she wasn’t scared. I… I wanted that. And I thought, if I could tell her about it first, she’d want to—”

“Be friends?”

The smallest most embarrassed nod. 

“It’s fun. Sharing a secret. She hides it from her sister. From everyone, but her sister the most. And her friends too. I told her the little bit Mam told me. About there being a whole ‘nother world and about the magic school. And we’ve been playing at pretending like we’re there. We weren’t hurting no-one, and no-one saw, we made sure. No-one knows. Like you wanted. It’s just her ‘n’ me and—” His voice petered out into guilt just as it piqued in enthusiasm, and Severus hunched back down like he’d only just remembered who he was talking to. 

“This isn’t just gonna go away, is it?”

Severus shook his head miserably. “I wanted it to, in the beginning. Like Mam said. I tried to pretend like it wasn’t there. And it felt like a bad thing, like I could always feel it when them at school’d get at me. It felt like it was gonna explode, like it did that one time in the garden, and I didn’t want that. But when I saw it in Lily and saw it didn’t have to be scary like that…” Tobias could see the hunger in the boy’s face, the wistful longing, until Severus sighed. “I dunno why she hates magic so much. It’s not _fair_.”

No, it wasn’t fair. There wasn’t much in this god-forsaken neck of the woods that _was_. And, for the first time in Tobias’s life, he didn’t want to settle for that and he didn’t see why his kid had to settle, not when he was touching another world, a better world — because anything, anywhere, was better than this.

“I’ll talk to your mam,” he promised. “We’ll get this sorted.” 

When making that promise, Tobias Snape had completely underestimated his wife’s stubbornness. Eileen refused to even engage in conversation. Anything regarding Severus’s friend Lily or magic, even in the peripheral, she simply turned her head and left his presence. Her mind was made up and, as far as she was concerned, Tobias’s was too. The best he could manage was to provide Severus with moderately believable alibis to enable to continuing friendship with the girl who made him smile. He was fairly sure Eileen knew though she never said anything, and Lily was sensible enough not to try her luck on this side of the river again. 

For a year, at least. 

Then, in the summer of Seventy-One, she flew into their kitchen waving a letter scripted in emerald ink. 

Lily didn’t even see Eileen or Tobias. She went straight for Severus who was in the middle of his bowl of cornflakes. “Did yours come?” she asked, breathless. “I thought it was gonna come by owl like you said but then a lady showed and she was wearing a pointy hat and I knew straight away she was a witch and she said she was from Hogwarts and she came in and explained everything to Mum and Dad and they weren’t even angry just really excited and I’m going! I’m going to Hogwarts! In September! And Petunia’s really mad about it but I don’t even care. And did yours come? We have to go together, Sev, we _have_ to!” 

Severus was side-eyeing Eileen something fierce. 

It wasn’t like before. 

She wasn’t angry.

She just looked… tired? 

“There’s no escaping it,” said Tobias later when Sev had disappeared with Lily. “There’s no getting rid of it, girl.”

Eileen stood stiffly at the kitchen sink, staring out the window to the place where Severus had first shown his magical ability. She flinched when he touched her. 

“Talk to me, Eileen.” 

So, finally, she did. Speaking quietly as though to herself, she told Tobias her story from the beginning to the end and, once she was done, he felt like he knew her completely for the first time in their thirteen years together. 

“It won’t be like that for him,” said Toby. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Her head hit his shoulder with a thump. “You don’t know anything.” 

Which, as it turned out, was true. 

The magical world was just that — just another world with its own troubles. Just as Eileen said. Toby had always assumed that getting away from the insular universe of Cokeworth would be all anyone needed to thrive, but people were still people, magical or muggle. It was a realization that came with bitter disappointment for Tobias and Severus.

Eileen, however, remained unsurprised. 

The boy’s years were a steady stream of pointed _I-told-you-so_ s as the reality of the Wizarding World in all its unfairness hit Severus harder than the biggest bully in the Cokeworth playground. Severus had no secrets to make him special there. He was a half-blood at best, scrawny and impoverished with no idea how this world was supposed to work. Lily found her place easily, but she was the kind of girl who could and would make a friend of anyone who crossed her path. Her muggle-born status didn’t matter because she decided it didn’t matter, whereas at pricked at Severus’s pride at every turn. To him, it held him back and marked him unjustly as inadequate. 

It hurt Tobias to find _Property of The Half-Blood Prince_ scratched on the inside of every book inside Severus’s school trunk, and more than once he’d thought about confronting the boy over it. But it wouldn’t help things. Either he would work out what mattered or he wouldn’t. Pushing him one way or another would do no good. 

“This is what happens,” said Eileen, not even looking at the book he’d tried to push at her. “This is what magic does to people.”

Tobias wasn’t so sure of that. 

He took his own experiences cautiously, tagging along to that weird street in London just before Sev’s third year, lingering over their shoulders as Severus and Lily did their homework at the kitchen table, borrowing Severus’s school books and _trying_ to make some sense of it in the evenings instead of watching telly. It was all so close to making sense without ever quite clicking, and Eileen was no bloody help at all. As far as she was concerned, she had cut loose from her magical heritage over a decade ago and that was that, Severus included. 

The biggest strain was the first time Lucius Malfoy came to stay, one week during the Easter holidays. 

Severus never offered much as far as his school life went, so when the name _Malfoy_ popped up more than once, Tobias knew that meant something. And, as ever, he liked the idea of Severus having friends — a rare occasion and cause for embarrassing celebration. Not to mention the fact that that Severus had been invited to Lucius’s house during the last two holidays. It was only polite to return the invitation. 

“No,” said Eileen, sounding more determined than usual which was really saying something. “The Malfoys are _trouble_. They are the absolute epitome of everything that is wrong with the Wizarding World. Please, Toby, trust me.”

“You know this friend of his?”

She flushed. “I know his Father.” And she would say no more. 

Lucius Malfoy was as out of place in Spinner’s End as Lily had been the first time she’d come over, and he cared even less than she had. Everything was fascinating, from the flickering electric lights to the gas stove, to the TV which only worked if you bashed it about a bit first, everything was fantastic and wonderous to the boy with the long blond hair whose clothes looked very much like they cost more than this whole house and everything in it. Even sleeping on the creaking camp-bed in Severus’s cramped bedroom was a novelty. The only time there was an issue was when Lily came round. Tobias had never seen her so cold, never thought she could be. Lucius’s whole being shifted too, like two rival toms spitting at each other, throwing insults at each other that Tobias didn’t understand until Eileen explained later a long with her favourite refrain of, “This is what it’s like.” So smug and certain, letting it all just play out just the way she knew it always would. 

As far as Tobias was concerned, it was just kids being kids, and no-one could be expected to get along with everyone, even Lily Evans. And if Severus wasn’t concerned, then that was that. 

“What’s it like at school?” Tobias took him aside to ask one evening when Lucius was grappling with muggle plumbing. “With those two?”

Severus winced. “It’s a… house thing. Gryffindors and Slytherins don’t mix. It’s fine.”

Which barely answered the question at all. 

“It’s pathetic,” Eileen muttered when Tobias pushed for a more thorough answer. “They cram eleven-year-olds into these tiny boxes they end up living in their whole lives. As though anyone knows who they are at eleven. And the whole society encourages it. It doesn’t end after school. It never ends. The moment you’re born, your whole life is a straight line, and anyone who deviates—” 

It was as close as she’d come to candid.

But she was forced to face the world she had run away from when a letter addressed to both of them arrived from Hogwarts. 

Tobias remembers the moment she opened it, her face as she read it, and the sound of her voice — faint, blank — as she said, “There’s been an accident.” 

The letter from McGonagall — brimming with reassurances that this notice was a standard courtesy and there was absolutely nothing to worry about — was quickly succeeded by a letter from Lucius. 

_Severus didn’t want you to know,_ he wrote. _He’s embarrassed. And none of the teachers care. They’re heralding Potter as the hero and Severus isn’t saying anything but I know there’s more to it. I know what Potter and Black are like. I thought you should know. He doesn’t know I’m writing but I don’t care if you tell him. I think he needs as many people on his side as possible and it feels like that’s just me. I’m trying to persuade Father to do something but I’m not depending on that. Even if he wanted to help, I don’t know there’s much he can do when the faculty’s biased._

“What about Lily?” Tobias asked. Even if she and Lucius could not get along with each other, at least they both cared about Severus.

Eileen expression was more than enough. 

Like his mam, Severus never said anything about anything important. He came home even quieter from that term and Lily’s presence was a distinct hole. 

“You two have a falling out?”

“She’s got a boyfriend now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

It was probably the longest conversation they had that year. 

Tobias would remember the name _Potter_. 

They might be different worlds with different rules, but people were people and you just didn’t fall for your best friend’s enemy. You just didn’t.

“I thought she was better than that.”

“It’s fine,” Severus lied. “It doesn’t matter.”

No-one was convinced. 

Severus threw himself into his school work as a distraction, spending all the time he had once spent with Lily with his house-mates. Anything to fill the gap she had left behind. Lucius was pleased. Eileen was not. As well mannered and personable as the young Malfoy was, she could not bring himself to be glad that he had taken their strange son under his wing. 

“That’s exactly what Abraxas was like,” she insisted. “It doesn’t last. It never lasts. The world will change Lucius, just like it changed his father.”

Lucius didn’t talk about his parents when he was with them, preferring to emerge himself in the little world of Spinner’s End. He was enthusiastic and a little hyper-active, especially compared to Severus, but it did strike him as strange that a boy who lived in a manor, who was the magical equivalent of royalty, would choose to spend his holidays in squalor. 

“What was it like, that one time you went there?” Tobias asked Severus. “What’s this Abraxas Malfoy like?”

Severus shrugged. “Didn’t see him. Lucius said he was working. I don’t think he liked me though. I don’t think he likes that Lucius likes me. And I know Lucius doesn’t like him.”

“That why he always comes here?”

Another sloping shrug. “I think Lucius just likes to get away from his family.”

Which seemed to be a recurring theme in magical-folk.

Lucius was full of big ideas of what he was going to be and where he was going to go but, in the end, he did precisely as Eileen predicted — he turned into his father, getting married straight out of school, taking over the estate, having a child too young and panicking when he realised the only model he for his future was a man he didn’t want to be. 

“It was inevitable,” said Eileen. 

Severus was different, the one positive about his unconventional upbringing being he had no choice but to make his own way out of his own choices. 

He settled down into himself after Hogwarts, finally finding peace with Eileen after years of resentment and forgiving her for all she had tried to keep from him. 

The sweetest day of Tobias’s memory was visiting Severus in his one room flat above the apothecary in Diagon Alley during his apprenticeship when he was eighteen. Tobias loved Diagon Alley for all the same reasons why Lucius Malfoy loved Spinner’s End, with its strange, crooked adjacency to the ‘real world’. Severus was never outwardly pleased to see them, but this time he had taken the initiative to invite them over himself. They had lunch in the Leaky Cauldron, and then he took Eileen to Olivander’s. Tobias had stayed outside, feeling more than ever that he did not belong inside a wand shop even if he was put up with in most of the other shops along the street, but he watched through the window as Eileen baulked, Severus insisted, and eventually a wand sparked in her hand. Severus bought it for her with his first pay cheque.

“What happened to your old one?”

“I snapped it in half and threw it in the river on our wedding day.”

“I wouldn’t’ve asked you to, you know.”

“You say that now.”

“I’d’ve said it then.”

Her dark eyes cut to him. “People change.” 

Everything was different after that, changed for the better and settled into a more comfortable era. No more secrets, no more fighting, and Severus finally had the opportunity to make his own life for himself rather than being cooped up in the close confines of Cokeworth or the restrictive inter-house politics of Hogwarts. He did make tentative peace with Lily, though it was more of a ‘let’s leave it on good terms’ as he and James Potter could never stand to be anywhere near each other, the same way Lily and Lucius refused to tolerate each other. 

Lucius was a good friend, despite Eileen’s misgivings, choosing Severus as his best man at his wedding to Narcissa Black and godfather to Draco. Tobias always suspected that, whilst Lucius was constantly surrounded by people, they were always there because they wanted something from Lucius or because Lucius wanted something from them, but he and Severus were true friends. Severus was never willing to sugar-coat anything, and was more than capable of standing up to him when Lucius got ridiculous. In return, Lucius helped him find in his feet and offered the support that Severus had never found anywhere else. It was entirely, surprisingly, mutual. When Lily died, it was Lucius who managed to keep Severus together, who gave him the means to get away and get his life together without worrying about funds. 

It broke Severus’s heart when he realised how Lucius was treating Draco. He took it personally, like somehow it was a failure on his part, and treated Draco like a self-prescribed penance, as though by saving him he could save her. In the end, he couldn’t save either of them. He couldn’t even save himself. 

It was all for nothing. 

Tobias has always tried to keep that little thought to himself. It isn’t fair. It isn’t even necessarily true. 

He tells it all to Harry Potter now, standing together besides the bright blue flowers on this stone-grey afternoon, finding that once he starts it is impossible to stop. There’s something about this boy, Lily’s son, that makes it feel like she’s right here, coaxing words he’s usually unable to voice. 

Harry Potter looks like his father, but there is so much more Lily in him than Potter. 

“I keep going back through it all,” says Tobias, pushing the toe of one boot into the sodden ground, boggy from a solid week of drizzle. “Trying to see where we might’ve done it different, so he might still be here. And there’s so many places I wish we could change, but Severus was always one to follow his own path. He never needed anyone else’s blessing. And that’s where his path took him. It was always going to end right here.” He glances back to the house, through the window to where Draco and Eileen are deep in conversation. “I see that in him, you know. Always have. Severus didn’t leave much by ways of a legacy, but that boy is it. And this one too, apparently.” He smiles at Albus Severus who’s starting to get fidgety in his dad’s arms. “I reckon he’d be pretty pleased to see himself in Lily’s grandkid.”

Harry Potter blinks, surprised and pleased. “You really think so? I’ve been getting the overwhelming impression that it was a massive faux-par and how very dare I.”

Toby laughs. “That’s just Draco. And maybe a bit of Eileen too. Don’t take it to heart. She’s a… cautious one. They both are. It’s a testament to you, Potter, that Draco trusts you. Especially after your history.”

Harry winces. “I suppose you know all about that.”

“We were afraid, from Severus’s and Draco’s stories, that history was wrapping right around itself.”

“I’m not my dad.”

“Don’t say it like that. People change, that’s what I’m getting at. And I _know_ Lily’d never’ve picked a bad man. Neither would Draco. Neither would you. I can tell. Don’t apologise on behalf of ghosts, Potter. They made their ow choices.” Tobias dips his head towards the house. “And feel free to relay that to Draco. He’s always been one to take things too seriously. If the Wizarding World did religion, he’s make a great Catholic.” 

Harry bursts out laughing, so loud at brings Draco and Eileen staring out at them as though they’d heard the world collapsing. 

“Having fun out here?” Draco asks, drifting through the back door the join them. He always looks a little uncomfortable, a little like he’s apologizing for his presence. He belongs here just as much as anyone else, and he knows that ‘else he wouldn’t be here now, but — no matter how much they try to make this place home for him — he’s never quite been able to let himself be completely comfortable. 

And right now he seems to be checking for blood and trying not to be surprised that he doesn’t find any. 

Albus has finally had enough and kicks to be let down, going straight to Draco to drag on his hand, pulling him down to whisper something in his ear. 

“Yes,” says Draco, ruffling the boy’s hair. “I think we’re just about ready to be going.” To Tobias, “I’m sorry, he was promised Hogwarts.”

Tobias cocks his head at the boy. “Feeling cheated?” 

Albus promptly hides behind his dad. 

“And shy, apparently,” says Harry apologetically. “Which isn’t usual for this one. Al, come out and be polite.”

But Tobias waves the thought away. “No need. No-one should have to be polite at— How old’re you, lad?”

Albus peeks then holds up six fingers. 

“Six? That’s a good number to be. How long’ve you been six?”

Albus’s nose wrinkles as he tries to work it out, then looks up at his dad for the answer. 

“Just past two months.”

“Yeah?”

Albus nods.

“D’you like it?”

The boy grins and nods again. 

“And I bet one of the best bits is not having to worry about being polite, right?”

“Yeah, except… except my dad says you’ve gotta be polite to everyone even when they’re rude to you even though he’s rude all the time about everyone when he thinks we can’t hear him but he’s always loud about it and them mum has to tell him to shut-up even though we get into trouble for saying shut-up cos it’s not polite.”

“And on that note—” Harry throws an arm around Albus, half-smothering him, half-wrestling him away. “This has been really valuable. Thank you. I admit, Draco, I’m glad we did this.” He sticks out a hand to Tobias. “It’s been really good getting to know you. I’m sorry if I was a bit… weird, earlier.”

Harry Potter has a very decent hand-shake, Tobias thinks approvingly as the three of them take their leave with Eileen, who offers to walk them back to the river and summon the wizard-bus on their behalf. 

  


“Come back soon,” she says as Draco leans to kiss her cheek in farewell. “And if you need anything — even if it’s someone to knock some sense into your father — you write straight to me.

“I will,” says Draco with a lie that sounds like a promise, loathed as ever to ask for help with battles he thinks he should fight by himself. 

She prays that Harry Potter will keep him sensible. It’s too big a job for Theodore to manage on his own. 

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after the last chapter, I had a lot of questions about Tobias and his portrayal in canon vs. this fic.  
> I'm not pretending to stick rigidly to canon in anyway, but I have always strived for realism and to keep a little more depth to the more... neglected characters. Toby I've gone a little further with than others. Originally I saw him as a harsher character, and I saw Eileen as coming into her own later on in her life and taking back control. But more recently I came across a little headcanon from a dear tumblr friend  
> http://thoughtsaboutsnape.tumblr.com/post/176500231689/first-off-nice-pic-secondly-enough-of-these  
> It's AU, but it really stuck with me and changed my thoughts on Tobias.  
> I see him more like the dad in Billy Eliot -- he grew up in a hard, simple life, and freaks out when things change. But he's not a bad guy, and -- slowly -- he learns to adapt and support his kid, even if he doesn't understand it.  
> I think Tobias and Eileen both really struggled when Severus was growing up, and of course that affected Sev pretty severely. I wouldn't say they're close in the typically warm way, but damage was stitched up to the point that Severus would trust them with Draco and help them out financially, and I think Spinner's End was always 'home' as little time as Severus spent there. I think Eileen was just as damaging to Sev as Toby was, but in a different way than Lucius is to Draco.  
> Of course, in the middle of writing this I saw the Pottermore post 'revealing' that Tobias was excessively physically abusive which really messed me up haha But I'm sticking to my guns on this one.  
> If you have anymore questions, I'll be happy to dig a little deeper :)  
> ~  
> As ever, please take a sec to comment! Thank you to everyone who does <3


	8. A Hero's Welcome

 

Albus gapes up at the first glimpse of the tallest spires peaking up above the trees, hanging tight to his dad’s hand on one side and Mr Malfoy’s on the other. They’ve been telling him stories all the way from where they got off the bus down the lane in the village called Hogsmeade, and he nearly felt like he was there already until he saw the castle itself. 

It’s at least a million times bigger and cooler than he’d imagined.

For all the games he and Scorp had played, pretending like they were there, nothing could’ve prepared Albus for how completely  _ awesome _ the real thing is.

And then he sees the Aurors and stops.

His dad and Mr Malfoy don’t see them, just look back at him confused because he’s still squeezing both their hands and frozen stiff to the forest-floor. 

Because it feels like before. 

Back at the Ministry. 

It’s the blue, glinting with gold, and they’re just milling now, three of them by the gate, but it’s like before when there was a flock of them, filling up Miss Winters’s and making everything that was warm and good cold and bad. 

This isn’t what Hogwarts is supposed to feel like. 

When the grownups finally do catch up, Harry’s arm goes quickly around his shoulders, pulling him tight to his side. 

“What is this?” Mr Malfoy speaks in a whisper, dropping back two steps. “Did you know about this, Potter?”

Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t. Though I suppose it makes sense. I suppose it’s good that they’ve upped their security. No more infiltration. This is  _ good _ .” He throws an unconvincing grin Albus’s way. “C’mon, kiddo. I’m an Auror, you’re not scared of me, right?”

Albus presses his mouth tight shut because his dad knows it’s not even a bit the same. 

“Only people who’ve done something wrong have anything to be afraid of from the Aurors,” Harry pushes. “And we’ve done nothing wrong. It’s good they’re here. They’re keeping everyone safe.”

Albus hangs back with Mr Malfoy, thinking about Scorpius and how it was the wizards in blue and gold who took him away, and then took his dad away, and locked Mr Malfoy up, and it was the Aurors that took away his dad’s wand and made his mum cry and spun everything around backwards. 

Mr Malfoy’s thinking all this too by the looks of him, but Harry’s already moving striding towards the gate with a hand raised in greeting.

They have their wands out at once, pointing right at his head.

Albus’s pulse jumps. He clings to Mr Malfoy’s side until he’s swept up and held close, every bit of him braced for the flash that’ll break everything that’s left.

It doesn’t come. 

“How’s it going?” says Harry cheerfully like there aren’t three wands pointing right at him. “Didn’t know you lot were stationed up here. Sounds like a good plan though. Back in my day, anyone could pretty much walk in and out as they pleased.” He laughs. “I’m Harry Potter, by the way. I’d show you my badge but in the middle of a bit of a flux right now.”

Only one of the wands stalls. 

“Wand please, Mr Potter.”

And, of course, he doesn’t have one.

“Well, that’s part of it too. Waiting to get it back, actually.”

The tall man cocks his head. “Confiscated was it?”

“Something like that. Big misunderstanding.”

The man turns to murmur something to the woman beside him whose eyes are narrowed like she’s got pieces clicking into place. 

Then, “I’m sorry, Mr Potter, but no-one under current investigation is permitted inside these walls. I’m going to have to take down a report and ask you to leave. If I’m right about you and your—” His eyes slide to them, standing a bit away. “— _ companion _ , the conditions of your bail explicitly forbid access to public institutions including but not limited to the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“It said no such thing,” Harry snapped. “If you want to waste all our time and look up a copy of the record, please go ahead, otherwise we are here by invitation of Headmistress McGonagall and she will be very unhappy to know how disrespectfully you are treating her guests.”

The woman raises her chin. “We answer to the Ministry, Potter, not the headmistress. And we are stationed here to keep unwanted parties out for the protection of the students.”

Harry bursts out laughing. 

Mr Malfoy moves in, setting Albus in one arm to keep the other hand free to pull Harry back. “Potter,” he murmurs. “Not here, not now.”

Apparently that makes more sense to his dad than it does to Al because Harry lets out a long breath and shoves fingers through his messy hair before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Alright. Let’s… find somewhere to throw our stuff down and I’ll send an owl to McGonagall.”

This is about to be the good plan they’re going to follow but the third Auror calls them back. “Malfoy?”

Albus feels every muscle in Mr Malfoy’s body tense.

“Heard about your Death-Eater dad getting out,” he says, sidling up to them with a look that reminds Albus of James at his worst. “Should’ve given him the kiss, if you ask me, soon as You-Know-Who was gone. Should’ve given all of you—”

“That’s enough,” Harry snarls. 

But, apparently, it isn’t. Far from it. 

“And you,” says the Auror, rounding on him with a dry laugh. “What’s this world coming to when you’re buddying up with Death-Eaters, Potter? So much for saviour. Definitely something suspect going on there. Looks like the Imperius if you ask me. Might make a note of that one, Liz. Get a report down to London. Have ‘em check up.”

“Potter,” Mr Malfoy begs. “Come on. Please. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t worth the trouble—”

“You’ll be lucky if you make it through Hogsmeade in one piece, Malfoy. We don’t forget around here, and we certainly don’t forgive.”

“Potter—”

But Al can see his dad’s wearing that face, that stone-cold bring-it-on face that’s usually followed by Mum ushering them quickly away. Except Mum’s not here and there’s nowhere to be ushered to, and Mr Malfoy doesn’t know how to deal with Harry like this. 

He’s drawn himself up taller, somehow, and when he speaks it’s in a dangerous growl that makes something in the bottom of Albus’s tummy shrink. “I’ve a good eye for numbers and you can bet I’ve got all your badges committed to memory. I’d put money on it that your captain already thinks you’re worthless, relegating you to sentry duty of a  _ school _ . It must get pretty boring around here, that’s the only excuse I can conjure for such blatant misconduct. If I were any less fair I’d let you keep digging yourselves into the  _ pit _ you’ve landed in and watch you lose your badges. As it is, I can only hope that my report won’t land you in anything more unpleasant than door-duty outside the Three Broomsticks on Friday nights. I’ll do you all a  _ big _ favour and not send it straight to London.”

It sounds like it’s supposed to be the biggest, most scary threat ever, from the way his dad says it, which is why it’s even worse when the lady-Auror just smiles. 

“You must really be under something, Potter,” she says softly, “if you think you have any friends left in the force after picking a  _ Death-Eater _ over your own. Everyone knows what you did to Davies. It was only that little matter of destroying you-know-who that’s kept you out of Azkaban.” Her eyes slide to Mr Malfoy. “And I don’t know what’s going on there, but don’t think people aren’t questioning it. The high-ups might be trying to smooth things over and paint a pretty picture with your face, but we’re not Confunded. Not up here. And you’ll get your justice. You and him both. If I was you, I’d keep low for a long while, not go about, throwing my dying reputation in people’s faces, thinking it’ll get you anywhere. You-Know-Who’s gone, Potter, right along with your relevance.”

Albus waits, tense in Mr Malfoy’s arms, for the snap-back.

It doesn’t come.

There’s a long moment, then his dad turns on his heel — face set like stone —and stalks back towards, them passed them, back down the path they’d come up. Mr Malfoy stutters, then they run together after him.

“This isn’t the end,” Harry growls, not slowing as they catch him up. “This is just a blip. Just a stupid blip. We’re getting in that damned castle whether they like it or not. They’re talking out their asses. Pay no attention.”

“Are you telling yourself that?” says Mr Malfoy with the slightest clip to his voice. “I told you, it doesn’t matter—”

“Of course it bloody matters! You were cleared of all charges, whatever they think, by the letter of the law—”

“Don’t pretend that matters, Potter.”

Somehow this hits the right mark. Harry slows and breathes, and gradually the furious tension starts to ease until hard fury changes to weariness. “Is this what it’s like?” he asks. “How do you stand it?”

“I… don’t offer many opportunities,” says Mr Malfoy. “Before everything changed, I had my routines and I stuck to them. I made myself useful to the people I had to have anything to do with and avoided anyone else as much as I could. You, ah, end up with a pretty decent sense of who’s willing to see you as you are and who has decided you are beyond redemption. It’s certainly easier, in the anonymity of London, but even so my reputation — and my father’s reputation — follows me. It always will. People will always need someone to blame, Potter, and it’s always easier to do so with someone who’s  _ here _ , not just a name in Azkaban.” He gives a crooked smile. “Really, I see it as part of my civic duty to be a—”

“A scapegoat?” Harry snaps. “Really? All that Malfoy pride and that’s what you settle for? You never try to defend yourself?”

“I’ve never had a huge amount of success in that respect. If you try and fight back, in my experience, it only gives them an excuse to hit you harder.”

Harry makes a disgusted sound through his teeth. 

The trees part as the path curves to dip back down the hill, the village of Hogsmead laid out before them. 

“I won’t be treated like a criminal,” says Harry, going first down the gravelly track. “And you shouldn’t either, Draco.”

 

  
*

 

 

But it isn’t as simple as that. Draco knew it wouldn’t be, knew also that the Aurors at the gate were only the first taste of what was to come. Potter, as ever, was a stubborn, idealistic ass, and as they tackled the village, looking for a room or two to set up base, Draco decided to treat this as a learning experience for the Gryffindor. Harry himself wasn’t as reviled by the general population as he had been by his ex-colleagues, but one look at Draco and the Three Broomsticks were full, as were the three other pubs along the main street and the B’n’B at the end. Vacancy signs be damned. 

Potter went into each and every one of them with a Gryffindor’s hope, met with the welcoming smiles of the proprietor and a cheery, “It’s been too long since we’ve seen you, Potter.” Until they realised that Harry’s companion wasn’t Ginny, or Granger or Weasley, or anyone they want anything to do with. 

Draco doesn’t blame them. As much as he tries to forget, as much as he  _ knows _ Potter is right and he isn’t a criminal, Hogsmeade is the site of his crimes and it’s impossible not to absorb all the blame in the air.

This is why he has avoided coming back so far.

It’s easier, with Albus in his arms and Potter at his side — tangible evidence that he isn’t who he had been the last time he was here — but it’s not enough, and it makes very little different to those they pass by, those who recognize him immediately, hostility written in bold print across their faces.

He wouldn’t want him here either, marring this beautiful little corner of the world. 

Because so much good happened here before it became the battle-field of so much bad. 

All those weekends spent here with Theo and Pansy and Blaise, pretending to be the grownups they didn’t have to be, giddy with independence. It felt like they could do anything they wanted, free of the restrictions of school or home. Pansy and Blaise would always hole up in the pub, pretending Butterbeer was something stronger, whilst Draco would drag Theo off to moon over the silver-flecked quills and ink that looked like spilled starlight. Despite popular speculation, Draco didn’t get an allowance — probably because his father knew perfectly well that he’d waste it all on pretty stationary instead of useful things like nice clothes and broom-care equipment — but window-shopping was just as fun and the months of saving up change from  _ valid purchases  _ and all that time to choose exactly what he wanted and the little paper bag with the golden script on the front and the braided paper handle—

Draco can’t help lingering once more at the window of Scrivenshaft’s. They have a new line in, feather splayed as proud as flags and striped in different colour schemes. Most are as eye-catching as peacock feather, like one that looks like it’s been dipped in a liquid rainbow, but Draco’s attention falls to the less flashy, subtle and muted but no less beautiful in a gentle spectrum of grey-scale and plum. 

He will have to come back here before they go home. 

"No luck.” Potter returns to their side, defeated and furious about it. “We should’ve gone about it completely different. Should’ve just said it was me and Al, then snuck you in round the back.”

“You know that wouldn’t’ve helped anything, Potter.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah. I know. But still. There’s nowhere that’ll take us.”

“You mean there’s nowhere that’ll take  _ me _ .”

Potter doesn’t say anything, but his silence has always been as loud as his words. 

Draco let’s Albus down. “Look,” he says. “If it would be easier if I go back to London and you do this by yourself—”

“ _ No _ . This is as much yours as it is mine, Draco. We’re doing it together.”

“I don’t know how Ginny puts up with you, I really don’t.”

“Oh, she’s as bad as I am, don’t worry.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I believe it.” Then, “I do know one more place we might have more luck. It’s a bit of a walk and more than a bit rough, but it’s better than nothing. I definitely know they’re discrete.” He points south, right to the end of the village and beyond. “Have you ever heard of The Hogshead?”

Harry looks at him a long while, then bursts out laughing. “More to the point, how do  _ you _ know about the Hogshead, Malfoy? Seems a bit outside your comfort-zone, especially back then.”

Draco’s face goes warm. “Yes, well… Discretion has always been valuable and privacy rare, especially when you know your parents have eyes on you at all corners. Theo and I needed a place where we could… work certain things through without the added stress of being overheard.”

“Ah,” says Harry. Then, smirking, “ _ Ah _ .”

“Stop it, Potter.”

Potter does his best — and Draco appreciates the effort — but the smirk stays firmly in place all the way through the village and up the hill. Albus Severus  _ thankfully  _ is oblivious. A rarity. 

Like nearly everyone else in this world, the landlord greets Harry like an old, dear friend but — thankfully — doesn’t go ice-cold at the sight of Draco. 

The pub is precisely as Draco remembers it, thought it’s been ten years since he was last here. A little splintered, irreversibly stained, the lamps in the brackets perpetually looking as though they’re about to die, the fire in the hearth warm and welcoming to whomever makes it this far. 

Draco sheds his coat and slings it over his arm as Potter introduces Al to the landlord; the boy’s legs dangling as he heaves himself up over the bar. 

_ “Yeah, I know,” _ Theo had said with an apologetic grin.  _ “It’s not exactly a honeymoon suite but I figured a bit of shab was worth the privacy.” _

Honeymoon. Is that what they were doing? 

Draco said nothing, staring around at the dilapidated pub Theo had tugged him all the way from Hogwarts too. He wasn’t subtle, though he made a valiant effort, and maybe if it hadn’t been the weekend nearest Valentine’s Day his secretive plan might’ve been a little more successful. As it was, Draco had caught Theo looking wistfully at the ridiculous pink and red decorations, and the couples making the most of the holiday to kanoodle in the open, and knew exactly what he was feeling. They’d been together for a year, a little over, and there was much they hadn’t discussed. There was even more they hadn’t  _ done _ , and Draco had been hoping to avoid those conversations for as long as possible. Forever, ideally. He had hoped that Theo would stay awkward enough not to broach it, that it was simply a tragic given that they’d never get the chance to be truly alone.

But frustration sparked ingenuity which blossomed into a room of their own in Hogsmead’s least desirable destination. 

The bed  _ groaned _ when Theo sat down, testing the springs.

Draco stayed stuck in the doorway. 

He’d thought about this moment over and over the last year, turning it around to look at every angle. Sometimes it seemed awful — why would anyone want to do  _ that _ to another human being? Particularly a human being of which they are particularly fond. But wasn’t that the point? He loved Theo, and  _ that _ —apparently — was what people did with the people they loved. And anyway, love was about sacrifice. Just because it wasn’t his particular cup of tea, didn’t mean Theo had to miss out on it. That wasn’t fair. That would surely doom them, and a broken heart was definitely far  _ far _ worse than a few moments of discomfort every now and then. 

Still, he had never been brave enough to broach the subject himself.

And now here they were.

Broaching. 

It took every bit of Draco’s will-power not to turn around and run. 

“At least the sheets are clean,” Theo was saying. “Ish. As long as you don’t look too closely.” He was starting to gabble. He was nervous too. But his nervousness was different. He was expecting something good to come out of this. 

Draco took a deep breath and stepped a little close. 

He owed Theo some good, after all the effort he’d made and year of waiting patiently. He couldn’t expect him to wait any longer.

Kissing was good. Draco liked kissing. It was funny because Theo always closed his eyes but Draco never did, he liked looking and seeing Theo’s face and absorbing every moment. It always made him love Theo even more in those seconds, though how that could be he had no idea. He liked the careful placement of Theo’s hands, sometimes a sweep down his sides to settle on his hips, sometimes on his arms and the grip on his elbows, always thoughtful, always an assurance, never asking for more. 

It changed this time. The hands went up and into his hair, not hard but enough to make Draco’s heart stutter and his magic flicker. He forced it back, didn’t want to ruin this— whatever  _ this _ was with Theo. Theo was good. Theo wasn’t going to hurt him. He knew this, and Draco clung to that knowledge, grasping for it as the kiss deepened. He kept his eyes open. If he closed them, he would drown. 

When finally Theo pulled back, he was flushed and grinning, lips kiss-pink. He didn’t say anything, and Draco almost wished he would.

_ Just get it over with _ , the voice in the back of his mind kept saying, the same voice and the same words he’d heard after every Quidditch match for two years.  _ Get it over as quickly as possible.  _

He didn’t want to feel that way with Theo. 

The windows were dirty, light catching and smudging across the panes. 

He could hear people in the bar below.

“I love you,” said Theo.

“I know. I love you too.”

Theo’s head tilted, his eyes searching. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Why do you think there’s something wrong.”

“I dunno. You just seem… on edge.”

“I’m fine, Theo.”

“Alright. Alright, sorry.”

Draco dropped his gazed to the chunk missing from the floorboard at his left foot. 

Theo’s presence got closer. “I’m nervous too.”

“I’m not nervous,” Draco snapped. 

Theo laughed. “Really? How? Tell me your secrets.” His fingers twined loosely through Draco’s, holding without expectation; expression nothing but fond. He knew Draco, was unfazed by his moodiness, as awful he felt to himself. 

_ I don’t deserve him. _

Sex is what people do when they’re in love. Everyone knew that. The rest of it shouldn’t matter. He and Theo were in love, therefore—

Draco dropped to his knees. He knew what to do.

_ Just get it over with quickly. _

Theo’s surprised, “What’re you—” turned quickly into a different sound with fewer words.

Draco knew what to do and he did it well, working hard towards the conclusion which meant it would be done and over with and maybe he wouldn’t have to think about it again for a while. And it was fine because sex is what you do with the person you love and Theo is different so he should be glad to do it with Theo and make him happy and—

Fingers clenched in his hair. 

And he couldn’t. 

“ _ Stop. _ ” Draco staggered back, half up and half down, hitting the door.

He kept his eyes tight shut, partly to focus on breathing and swallowing the stupid panic choking him and partly so he didn’t see Theo, bewildered and disheveled and disappointed in him. 

The handle jabbed into his back. He could find it if he reached, wrench it open and run before Theo had the chance to tell him— Because the break-up was inevitable now. Sex was something you did with the person you loved and if you couldn’t—

“ _ Don’t touch me.” _

Theo stepped back, heart-break written across his face, struggling to find the right question and afraid to ask it when it came. He held his hands up in open-palmed surrender. “Okay,” was all he said. 

It took a while for those two syllables to absorb properly and for Draco to understand that Theo didn’t mean  _ Okay, then leave,  _ rather, simply,  _ Okay. _

His bones and muscles were so stiff they groaned when finally he raised his head to meet Theo’s eye.

Theo sat on the bed, redressed once more, hands flat behind him as he waited with unconditional patience for Draco to come back to him. 

He didn’t go until he wanted to, and then they sat together, side by side, a third of the length of the bed between them. 

“I thought this was gonna be your first time too.”

Draco shook his head. 

“You never told me.” There was the edge of a tease in Theo’s voice, the same tone he’d heard in Pansy’s and Blaise’s when they talked coyly about sex, trying to wrangle together secretive details that would inevitably be shared with great triumph. “Who was it?” 

He could play the game that way, casually evading the truth like the secret was something to be proud of rather than something that still plagued his dreams and waking him up in a sweat. Maybe if he played well enough, he’d be allowed to keep his secrets. 

“Just… Someone older.”

“A Slytherin?” 

Heaps of crumpled emerald Quidditch uniforms flashed in Draco’s memory. He nodded. 

“When?” 

“A while ago. A few years ago.”

Theo was quiet as he made sense of this. They were, after all, only fifteen. They were still, technically, young. “When?” he asked again, lower, sharper. 

Draco needed to trim his nails soon. They were jagged in his palm, leaving pink crescent imprints behind. He could make his hands look like dragon-scales if he took enough time to do so. If he did it neatly enough—

“Draco?”

He winced. His head felt thick and his thoughts muggy. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a nice time, a nice thing Theo had done for them, and he’d wanted to do something nice for Theo in return. Theo who was different. Who he loved. He didn’t want to think about other things and other people when he was with Theo. That was the best part of being with him. 

“Everyone gets nervous,” Draco heard himself echo. “That’s it. That’s all.”

Theo had always known him better than anyone else. The lie was worthless. 

“You… don’t have to tell me, Draco. Not if you don’t want to.” Theo pushed backwards until he was lying amongst pillows. “And we don’t have to do anything. That’s not really why I wanted to come here with you. I just wanted to be somewhere just us, not sneaking around, scared someone will see us. I don’t mind what we do or don’t do. I just want to be with you.”

He said it so simply as though it were obvious, as though he was sad it needed to be said at all. 

There was a small hole in the one of the patches in the eiderdown. Draco stuck a finger in, working some of the feathers loose, then he went to lie with Theo the way they did hidden by the heavy drapes of the four-poster beds in the Slytherin dormitory, nestled in the circle of Theo’s arm, Theo’s cheek resting on his head. Draco laid his hand on the steady thump of Theo’s heart and counted the beats, breathing along with the rhythm. 

At three-hundred and seventy-two, Theo kissed the top of his head. At five-hundred and eleven, he said, “We don’t ever have to do it if you don’t want to. I don’t mind.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

Draco hid in Theo’s side.

“And you… you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. But if you decide you do, down the line, don’t be… Don’t be scared. Alright? It doesn’t need to be a secret.”

Draco made himself nod thought it didn’t feel true though. He couldn’t imagine telling Theo about what he’d let people do to him and everything staying the same afterwards. Things always change with revelations like that. He knew. He’d been there before. People look at you differently, and maybe they don’t blame you out loud, but a look is enough. Confirmation of all the things whispered hot in his ear —  _ No-one will ever believe you didn’t ask for this. _ He remembered the way his father had looked at him after  _ the incident _ , doubtful, suspicious. That look was bad enough on Lucius Malfoy’s face, Draco couldn’t stand the thought of it on Theo’s. 

And maybe Theo meant it in the moment, but there was no way Draco was ever going to take a risk like that. Love was never  _ truly _ unconditional. 

It had been a sweet night though as they’d sunk back into comfortable, and a gloriously lazy morning, waking up of their own accord, wrapped in sheets and each other, and kissing was good again.  _ They _ were good again, the hiccup of last evening behind them. It was the perfect valentine’s day. It wouldn’t’ve been so if they’d  _ talked about it _ , that was for sure. Some conversation just weren’t worth having. 

Draco looks around the little room, catches sight of the hole in the eiderdown, and smiles. He wishes Theo was here. Longs for him with a physical pang in his chest. They had talked about that, the evening before, but had come to the agreement that it was more practical for Theo to stay behind and catch up on job applications. It was the sensible decision. 

Draco throws his bag down and then himself onto the bed, listening to the sounds of Harry and Albus getting settled in the next room. 

To hell with sensible, he wishes Theo were here.

There is little time to rest before Harry comes battering in with Albus in-tow.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m gonna run down to the owl-office and try and get to the bottom of this by the end of the day. I dunno how long it’s gonna take, but if you two want to stay up here and out of trouble that would be great.” He nudges Al forwards. It isn’t really a question. “I’m not sure if they technically have a menu here but I’m sure you can convince Aberforth to rustle up something edible.”

As though on cue, Albus’s stomach growls. 

*

 

The ‘Menu’ is sparse to the point of non-existent and not quite to Draco’s taste, but Albus — like his father — it entirely unselective when it comes to food and demolishes the rather tragic cheese and pickle sandwich like he hasn’t been fed in a week, then promptly makes short work of Draco’s too. 

Draco sips tea. 

It’s a good brew, strong and simple, and takes three more sugars than Draco’s usual two to make it drinkable. But it’s  _ good _ tea, made better by the comfy worn-leather armchair by the fire and the ragged book of Goat-Keeping for Amateurs, and the gentle peace as Albus gets over his food-coma. 

So far, nothing has gone quite to plan but — Draco thinks — maybe that’s okay. 

This is really as good as he could possibly hope for, a good book and a good brew and  _ peace _ . 

“Mr Malfoy?”

He glances up.

Albus is still lying prostrate across the patched sofa, but he’s found the energy to look over in Draco’s direction; green eyes bright with a muddle of difficult questions.

“Mmm?”

“All this stuff what we’re doing, Hogwarts and stuff, it’s all to bring Scorp home, right? That’s why we’re here, right? Cos they’re gonna… they’re gonna help us get him back. Right?”

Draco smooths the brown pages and the faded script. “Not exactly. Not directly. I’m… We’re hoping it’ll make a difference later on. In the bigger picture. But we’re… we’re not here for Scorp.”

Albus sighs and flops back. “Oh.” Then, softly, “It feels like no-one’s doing anything. Like everyone’s forgetting him.”

It’s like a curled hook twisting into his gut.

“Is that what you think?”  _ Is that what Scorpius thinks? _

A rueful shrug. “Maybe. A bit. I just… thought it’d be quicker’n this.”

“It’s much more complicated that you think.”

“That’s what Dad says.”

“He’s right, Albus.”

“Yeah but it still feels like no-one’s  _ doing _ anything. And I thought… I thought this was supposed to be for it. All this stuff. Being here.”

“We were planning this long before… Scorpius left us.”

“Yeah, I know that. But still.” The boy makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a huff. “I don’t think we should be doing anything else apart from getting him back. Nothing else should be important.”

_ You’re not wrong _ , Draco thinks. 

“The problem is,” he says instead, picking at his words, “we’re all in the rather sticky situation that the more we do, the less likely we’ll win.”

Albus slides his legs around and sits up. “What does that mean?”

“It means, whilst all any of us really want to do is storm the Manor and grab him back and fight the people who’re keeping him away from us, doing any of that will only mean they win and put Scorpius in more danger. The best way — the  _ only _ way — to help him right now is to sit still and behave.”

Albus Severus Potter scowls. “I hate that.”

“I know. I do too. More than you can possibly imagine.”

“So we’ve just gotta wait until they decide we’re good enough to have him back? Like, better’n the people who’ve got him? But they’re the bad ones, right? That’s what Dad says. Shouldn’t they know we’re the good guys? The people who decide.”

“They should,” says Draco crisply. “But the bad guys, they’re, ah, very good at pretending to be the good guys even we know they’re not. They’re very good at making other people believe that they are. And right now your Aunt Hermione’s trying to prove that we’re not the worst, that we at least deserve a chance to be considered good enough. That’s what we need to do first before we can start really fighting for Scorp. All that nonsense at the Ministry… That’s all going against us—”

“I thought that’d all gone away. Cos you and Dad came home.”

“It was a conditional release. For me, anyway. There’s still going to be a trial and if they think I deserve it, I could still go to prison. I’m only allowed out because Pansy and her husband paid a lot of money for me to come home.”

Albus looks absolutely terrified by the prospect. “And… and Dad?”

“It’s not the same,” Draco promises. He reaches on instinct for the boy, the same way he would tug Scorpius to him when he started getting upset. Albus comes easily, settling beside him, accepting comfort. “He might lose his Auror badge, but they’re not going to throw Harry Potter in Azkaban.”

Albus’s head tilts up. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like your mouth did a twisty thing like the way James’s does when he’s mad about something.”

“An old tick, Albus. It’s nothing.”

“What’s a tick?”

“A habit. Like biting your nails.”

“I don’t bite my nails.”

“Well, lucky you, then.”

“My gran says if you bite your nails they’ll grown inside your tummy but I’m not sure if that means that the nails will grow or if it’ll be like a whole hand.” He flexes his fingers thoughtfully. “Mum said she used to bite her nails and that’s why she stopped. D’you bite yours?”

Draco considers his own fingers. They’ve been in a terrible state since November. “Sometimes.”

“Maybe you’ve got a hand inside you.”

“Maybe. It certainly feels that way sometimes.”

Albus squirms and howls in delighted horror. “Ew!”

Draco laughs, glad that the boy is grinning again. “It feels like an octopus with a hundred slimy tentacles.”

“ _ Noo! _ ” 

Draco takes great pleasure in teasing Albus, and for a moment it almost feels like Scorpius is here. They are so alike, the boys, in so many ways, and Draco will be forever grateful to Harry for letting him have this time. And maybe — Draco suspects — that it’s the same for Al, that they fill a little of the Scorpius-shaped hole in each other. After all, they understand each other better than anyone else can. It’s different for them than it is for anyone else — the frustration bigger, the loss less bearable. 

But, together, maybe they will be able to manage it.

Together, Draco and Albus will make sure that Scorpius is not forgotten.

  
*

 

It’s late when Potter finally returns looking like a drowned rat. A very triumphant drowned rat, but a drowned rat nonetheless. 

“Raining?” Draco asks casually, speaking low so as not to disturb the sleeping boy curled up in the circle of his arm. 

“Just a bit.” Harry sheds his dripping coat and plonks himself down right there on the floor in front of the fireplace like some sort of uncivilized troll. “I didn’t leave until I got a reply from McGonagall,” he says as though that wasn’t the obvious assumption. 

“And?”

“And we’re good to go. She sent me a letter of explicit permission — which you can bet I’ll take great pleasure in shoving under their noses — and promises that we won’t get anymore trouble from them.”

“Definitely ‘we’, Potter?”

“Yes,” says Harry decisively. “You’re named too, don’t worry.”

Draco nods, trying to do as Potter says and failing quite spectacularly. He’ll be worrying right until they’re drinking tea in McGonagall’s office and probably for a good while after that too. But he just says, “Good. That’s very… good.”

“Yup, first thing tomorrow. Up bright and early.” Harry falls back on his elbows and grins, more relived than anything else. “Honestly,” he admits. “I had visions of us going home empty handed.”

“That certainly wasn’t the impression you gave.”

“Yeah well… I’m pretty good at faking positivity. Especially for that one.” He nods at the sleeping boy at Draco’s side. “He was good for you?”

“Of course. The best. You should give your son more credit, Potter.”

Harry smiles fondly. “It’s not a lack of credit. More of a ‘I know he’s very choosy about who he’s good for’. Which I get. You’re one of the chosen ones, Draco.”

“I feel very blessed.” It comes out dry, but Draco means it. He’d always felt very lucky with Scorpius, like he was an outlier, an anomaly, that he didn’t have a choice  _ but _ to love him. It’s nice to be chosen. Draco runs his fingers gently through the wild black hair. “He misses Scorpius as much as I do.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs. “I know. It’s been really tough for him.”

“What’ve you told him, Potter?”

Harry’s lip goes guiltily between his teeth. “Not too much,” he admits. “Not enough. I don’t want to lie to him. I don’t want to give him false hope. And it’s hard when  _ I _ don’t know anything either. There’s so much to do before we can even think about—”

Draco turns abruptly away, a bubble in his throat. “He’s afraid Scorpius is being forgotten. I-I suppose I am too.”

A long pause, then softly, “You know that’s not true, Draco, don’t you?”

“Yes. I know. But even so. Mostly I’m… I-I’m afraid he thinks he’s been—” But it hurts too much to even think it. Draco grits his teeth so hard they grind. “I just wish I could tell him.”

“Yeah. I know.”

_ Do you? _ Draco doesn’t say.  _ Do you really, Potter? _ But that wouldn’t be fair. Instead, he says, “It’s Scorp’s birthday soon. Do you think they might let me send him something?”

The wince on Potter’s face is answer enough. 

Draco can’t stand to heed it. “I might get him something here, before we leave. Maybe Albus would help me.”

“I know he’d love to.”

Draco nods, turning his face into Albus’s curly hair, knowing perfectly well that there is nothing on earth that can make up for absence. 

Distraction is really the best any of them can hope for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a bridge chapter, but I wanted to get it up purely because I'll be going in all guns blazing this month and trying to get a good chunk of this fic done during April Camp NaNoWriMo Aiming for 75k+ so I'll have a few uploads for y'all come May! I'm so psyched to get into Hogwarts!
> 
> Thanks everyone who's taking the time to R&R, I thrive on your feedback <3


	9. Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excited to be back! I wrote 75k(!) of this fic in April which is about 10 chapters. Hit some really exciting marks and got about half way through the story ^^ Please let me know what you think, reviews give me so much energy and motivation, I really value every single one <3

 

Hogwarts is the home the Manor had never been.

The castle opens up around them, drawing them inside and enveloping them in warmth, and Draco breathes it in like the first breath after a lifetime of suffocation. The air still tastes the same, like ancient wood and fire-smoke and magic. Even outside in the courtyard, with the flickering notes of each student. And there are so many of them. Draco doesn’t remember Hogwarts ever feeling this full, but there’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to step without nearly knocking into someone. And they are all so  _ small _ .

He walks alone in a daze, drifting behind Harry and Albus. It isn’t like the village, when all faces turned in their direction and eyes narrowed in disdain. Most of the children are deep in their own lives, hurrying towards or away from class, buried too deep in conversation with friends to notice two adults and a six-year-old. The few that do notice them gawk at Harry with wide-eyed incredulity, too awestruck to have the courage to say anything. Harry grins back, greeting where he can.

But they are on a mission too.

They are finally here, doing what they’re supposed to.

Draco feels too big in this castle now.

He remembers the first enormity of it, the new world of his new life away from the Manor, and falling in love. Sweeping across the Black Lake on that tiny, rickety boat towards the looming silhouette of the place he had dreamed about for so many years, terrified it would fall short of his impossible expectation. It was, after all, just a castle. Just a school.

But it wasn’t. It was  _ so _ much more than that.

Home.

Still home.

He is too big and too old, but Hogwarts doesn’t mind. It welcomes him back as though he has always belonged here, as though nothing as changed. As though all is forgiven. It urges him to let go a deep breath, and when he does, he feels eleven years old, twelve years old, as though all that is bad has been shut away on the other side of the gate.

_ The magic still stands. _

It is an illusion, Draco is fully aware of that, but one so convincing it is impossible not to believe in it still, that this is a safe place, that he is protected here, that any threat that might come will either be entirely academic and harmless or fought away by the teachers who have his best interest at heart. 

After all, a castle is a fortress.

Quiet falls the deeper they go as the student body dissipates into classrooms behind closed doors leaving only the muffled drone of the professors accompanies their echoing footsteps.

“How’re you doing?” Potter asks, glancing back to Draco over his shoulder. “Scale of one to ten, how weird is it being back?”

“The weirdest part is that it doesn’t feel weird at all.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, I get that.”

“I thought it would be different,” Draco continues, trotting to match Harry’s brisk gait. “With all the destruction and repairs. And, of course, with everyone gone—”

“No-one ever truly leaves.”

It is a softly spoken phrase, almost thoughtless, but it sends chills across Draco’s whole body. “What do you mean, Potter?”

“Oh… Only that I think it’s such an integral part of everyone’s lives who comes here. It’s important, and important things — people or places — never really leave us. Hogwarts made us who we are. Or at least, started us off. Like little seeds in a tray.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

Harry frowns back at him with half a smile. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

_ Yes, of course, _ Draco wants to say, but it’s impossible to imagine the blood slick across the floors, the bodies of children slumped against the walls, torch-light flickering in dead eyes. It’s impossible to recall the chaos, the smoke, the running from what you were sure was certain death from one side or another, trying to find an ally and not knowing who — if anyone — was on your side because you didn’t even know whose side  _ you  _ were on. There were holes in the walls and scorched portraits and slashes of green light in the air. In this air right here. And screaming and tears  _ and so much death _ , and how can it all just feel like it had never happened?

Nothing is so easily fixed.

“How long did it take?” Draco hears himself whisper, not realizing he’s stopped until Harry and Albus are six feet away. “To put it all back together. What was it like when you came back that September?”

Potter rejoins him, looking a little concerned, a little gentle, taking all the time Draco didn’t know he needed. Potter knew. He’d just been waiting for Draco to know it too. “It wasn’t like this,” he says. “It took years and no-one thought it could be done. There was talk of ripping the whole thing down and starting from scratch. Even moving it somewhere else. There were a lot of people — a lot of important people — who said this was cursed ground and there was nothing that could ever make right the evil that had been done. I felt that way too, for a while. Coming back was… weird. Because it wasn’t the same. Everyone felt it but no-one would say anything. They all wanted it to be the same and they were all pretending it was. It wasn’t like this. There was no way everything could be cleaned up in just a few months, but McGonagall insisted that there would be a Hogwarts to come back to, no matter what was decided for its future. She was determined that there would always be a place for kids to come back to. And I’m glad she did. And I’m glad I came back. As eery as it was. It wasn’t a big learning year for us, or for anyone really I suppose. But that wasn’t the point of coming back. We had to make it ours again. We had to make it right. It wasn’t a big deal, we just did what we could and made it worth doing. The real big stuff came later, the actual rebuilding, but it was all stuff no-one wanted to commit to — either with time or money — until we knew for sure what was to become of it.”

Harry looks around them as though seeing the castle for the first time, and his son looks with him, bright with the wondrous expression Draco knows so well — his first trip to Hogwarts.

“I only came back once after that,” Harry murmurs. “McGonagall insisted I had to be here for the grand official re-opening. It was like a rebirthing for the castle and a memorial for all we’d lost. I knew I had to come but it was… it was really hard. And I felt what you’re feeling, I think — wondering how everything can somehow feel the same after all that. Because it does, doesn’t it? Hogwarts still feels like Hogwarts and it sort of feels like it shouldn’t.”

Draco nods. To have that feeling put so succinctly into words— “It feels disrespectful, almost.”

“Yeah, and that’s what a load of people were saying. Like it shouldn’t be a living, breathing place anymore, just a grave-site. A memorial. And I felt that too for a while. But, you know, all the people worth remembering, they’d’ve wanted this place kept alive. It would’ve been more disrespectful to turn it into a mausoleum.”

“I thought it would be like walking into a crypt,” Draco admits. “That’s all I’ve been picturing. That’s part of the reason why I’ve stayed away. The memories… they’re some of the best I have. I couldn’t stand the thought of ruining them.”

“And how do you feel now?” Harry asks with a knowing smirk.

“I feel—”  _ Good? _ “Good,” says Draco. “It’s right that we start here. And I’m glad I came.”

He starts a little when Harry claps on him on the shoulder. “Excellent. Let’s do this.”

 

*

 

Draco knows he has been this way before, has been inside the Head’s office behind the curling griffin statue, but the memory is vague as though sanded down into indistinction. It was when Snape was headmaster, of that much at least he is certain. He was always a good enough student to avoid any serious summonings when Dumbledore was in charge and, thankfully, Snape was good enough to deal with Slytherin problems internally, protecting them from the risk of biased verdict. In retrospect, Draco has no idea how he managed to swing that one. Maybe Dumbledore simply never cared enough even to bother disciplining students of his least favourite house. Maybe he just never noticed. During Snape’s short term as Headmaster, Draco was either absent or Snape was too busy to interfere in his students’ lives as much as he had before. He was no longer responsible for a single house but the whole castle, the whole future of the Wizarding World, resting solely in his hands.

It was Theo who’d lead him here by the hand, through these same winding halls he couldn’t quite remember how to navigate, head still thick with the remnants of  _ Imperio, _ and Theo who’d spoken the password to permit them entry.

He remembers, vaguely, that it was strange to see his godfather seated stiffly behind the golden desk, so intrinsically Dumbledore’s. It was bright — too bright — and Snape was a shadow in the sunlight.

“Sit,” Snape ordered, and Theo gently maneuvered him into the chair on the other side of the desk. Draco’s feet a few inches from the floor. He remembers feeling small. Had always been small, much to his father’s disdain. Failure to flourish. Neglect.

Snape knelt before him, looking even less like a headmaster than ever. He peered up into Draco’s eyes, searching his face for something. He didn’t touch, was careful not to touch, at least with his hands, but Draco could feel a gentle probe at his mind. He flinched backwards, into the reassuring pressure of Theo’s hands on his shoulders.

“Can you speak?” Snape asked.

He couldn’t. Hadn’t been able to for he wasn’t sure how long. There weren’t words in his world anymore. Someone had taken them away from him. It was hard enough to understand other peoples’, let alone find his own. It was like being little again, when all the words he had were somehow wrong so it was better not to speak anyway. Words got you in trouble. Better to keep your mouth shut.

“He talks in his sleep,” Theo said behind him. “Like… Like You-Know-Who’s right there. And someone else. Yaxley? Though I don’t know—”

“Alright,” said Snape. “Thank you, Mr Nott.”

“What’d they do to him, sir?”

“If Draco wants us to know, he’ll tell us in his own time.”

“But you can see, can’t you? When you do that. Legilimency?”

“Yes.”

Sun fell through the high windows surrounding the office, shattering across ever golden surface. Bright. Too bright.

“Drink this,” said Snape, and helped a vial to Draco’s lips. Then, to Theo, “Make sure he takes a drop of this every evening before trying to sleep. It should help with the nightmares. Inform me of any significant changes, but I’m afraid I do not have the time to—”

“It’s coming here, isn’t it, Professor? The war.”

“I’m afraid it’s been here a long time already, Theo.”

 

*   
  


Professor McGonagall looks so much older and so much smaller than Draco remembers. He hangs back as she embraces Harry, as warm as a close friend, and then Albus the new generation of Potter — who grimaces.

“He’d never forgive me if I came here without him,” says Harry with a laugh. “I reckon he’s been dreaming of Hogwarts from the moment he was born.”

Albus’s grimace deepens, ever embarrassed to be the center of attention.

McGonagall is entirely undeterred, more used to children than anyone else after decades in this school. Draco remembers her as sharp and austere, probably in the same way ex-students of other houses remembers Snape, but observing her now with Albus, he sees none of that. She loves him, this boy she has never met before, considerate of his cautiousness until it finally gives way and he opens up to her, breaking into Albus-speed chatter about his birthday and his siblings and how Lily’s a girl but she’s not as annoying as James who’s the most annoying person in the world and if he gets magic first Albus will be  _ so mad _ but he’s pretty sure he’s going to get his first because he’s already been sort of practicing well pretending really but he’s pretty sure but not a hundred percent that he’s already felt a bit of magic in his fingers already if he wiggled them seventy-seven and a half times at exactly thirteen minutes past eight every night. James doesn’t know that trick and Albus is determined only to tell him about it  _ after _ he’s got his magic first, but maybe he’ll show Lily because James would be  _ really mad _ if she got it even sooner’n him because he’s double her age.

“And,” he says in his very smallest voice, stubbing the toe of his left trainer in the gap between the flagstones, “d’you think you could, if there’s a list like my dad says there is, see if I’m definitely on there?”

“Al,” Harry chides. “That’s not the way it works. You’ve got to wait ‘til you’re eleven, just like everyone else.”

“Yeah, but you said… you said that you’re on the list as soon as your born! It already knows if you’ve got magic or not and… and if I don’t then I’d rather know now’n—”

“You know,” says McGonagall thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, Mr Potter, I do believe I saw the name Albus Severus on that list the last time I checked.”

Albus’s eyes go wide “Really? You did?” He tugs at Harry’s sleeve. “See? I’m there! Is James? Is Lily?”

“I think they’ll have to find out for themselves,” says McGonagall.

Albus nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. But what about Scorp though? Cos he’s already done some magic so he’s gotta be there so we can go together. Did you see him too?”

“Scorp?” McGonagall looks questioningly from Albus to Harry.

Draco steps forward. “My son. Scorpius Malfoy.”

As McGonagall take him in, her expression fluctuates like she hadn’t quite seen him behind the Potters. He submits to the sharp sweep of her gaze behind her glasses and awaits her judgement. Her unyielding impartiality had always protected him from the same revile he’d felt acutely from other faculty members, but he knew her preference when it came down to it. He was under no delusion that he had ever held a place in her affection.

But, to his utter surprise and slight horror, she greets him as she greeted Harry — warm, and genuine pleasure that he is here.

“Draco Malfoy,” she says gripping his hand tight in both of hers and looking right into his eyes in that manner that seems very particularly Gryffindor. “You have my greatest sympathy and all of our support here at Hogwarts.” She nods to Harry. “You too, Potter. The way the Ministry has been treating both of you… And those wretched Aurors…” She stops on the brink of saying something she shouldn’t and takes a deep breath, conceding with a stiff, “It’s a messy business and I commend both of you for your bravery.”

“Bravery?” Draco echos, then laughs. “That implies some sort of choice in the matter, and there has certainly been very little of that lately.”

“You are here,” say McGonagall, just as Harry mutters, “For god sake, Draco…”

“You made the choice to get back up and come here,” she continues. “You have made the choice to keep living when I know most would not have found the strength to do so. You are  _ fighting _ , Draco. And fighting is always brave.”

He grits his teeth, his first name in her voice  _ jars _ . The compassion with which she looks at him, the gentleness in her voice, it is all out of sorts, as though she’s pretending this is the way they have always been. As though he has ever been anything but  _ Malfoy _ to her before today.

The words of the strange post-script scratched beneath the stranger letter haunt him like a ghost —  _ Help will always be given to those who ask for it —  _ as though it were ever as simple as that, as though he hadn’t and therefore the blame lies with him.

_ Where were you, where was that help when— _

“He will be so glad to see you, Draco.”

Every inch of his skin sparks. “He?”

And she says, with a curious look, “Severus.”

The world keeps turning and Draco stays still. They are all watching him, Harry and McGonagall and Albus, their heads turned to bear witness so his reaction.

He has none to give them. 

“Did you not get his letter, Draco?”

Harry takes the reigns when Draco cannot find the words.

“He got it,” he tells her. “But we weren’t sure if it was real or if it was… some sort of weird joke. We went to his parent’s house — Snape’s parents — to find out one way or another, and they didn’t know anything.”

McGonagall gives Harry a familiar arched-eyebrow look. “Why would I joke about that, Potter?”

A question which, of course, even Harry Potter cannot answer.

“He’s… He’s really here?” Draco asks, his voice a ragged whisper. This feeling right here is exactly what Draco had fought to avoid by detouring to Spinner’s End — this abrupt shock, caught off guard in a way that a Slytherin can  _ never _ be comfortable with. 

“Hey.” Harry grounds him with a touch to the arm. “Let’s make a plan. I’m gonna go find Neville and drop Al off with him. You good with that, kiddo? You want to be Neville’s assistant for a class or two?”

Albus nods eagerly.

“Alright. Good good. We’re gonna do that then. Draco, why don’t you work this out and we’ll reconvene a bit later for the serious stuff? I’m sure Al’ll be bored to death if we do it now.”

 

*

 

Through a haze, Draco watches Potter and Albus leave, the door closing behind them leaving him alone with Minerva McGonagall,  all she knows and all he doesn’t.

“I didn’t mean for this to come as a surprise, Draco—”

“Please, don’t call me that, Professor.”

She falters. As politely as he spoke, offense flashes across her face.

Draco drips his head. “With all respect, I was never Draco to you before. Let’s not pretend I was.”

A stretch of silence then, “Have a seat, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco feels better almost immediately; equilibrium restored

His feet touch the ground now, though the back of the chair stretches up high past the top of his head. McGonagall takes the throne on the other side, clearing the desk free of her newspaper and crumb-smattered plate.

“Tea?” she asks, wand poised over two porcelain cups.

“Please.”

Tea streams from the tip of her wand, steaming as it goes. Draco hasn’t had magically made tea in months, he realizes, accepting it with a nod of thanks.

“Biscuit?”

Draco takes a ginger-cat and nibbles the tip of an ear.

“I’m sure you have questions,” McGonagall prompts eventually as the silence softens into something more comfortable. “And I’d like to give you answers before you see him. He’s…not in the best position to give them himself.”

“What does that mean?”

“How much do you know about ghosts, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco strains to recall his lessons. There was maybe one, maybe in fifth year purely for the sake of O.W.Ls, but nothing much to hold onto beyond the exams. “All the ghosts I’ve met have been perfectly cognizant.”

“I dare say all the ghosts you’ve met have been in that state for at least a century,” she says with a smile. “Think of a baby. It takes years for them to grow up and learn how to be themselves. It is the same for ghosts, and their existence spans much further than life. Severus is still very much in the early stages of his new state, and his mind is in flux. It’s better than it was in the beginning, but there are still frequent episodes where he isn’t even aware he’s dead. And his form hasn’t settled yet. Most of the time he is as he was when he passed, but he can span his entire lifetime in just a few moments, from from twenty to eleven to five. The memory of his life is the size of a single moment. I want you to be prepared for that when you meet him.”

Draco forces a nod. It’s impossible to speak, difficult to breathe, difficult not to throw up.

“But — and I think it’s important you know this, Mr Malfoy—” McGonagall sits a little forward, a little straighter, forcing him to meet her eye. “Through it all, he has always known you, has always talked of you. Has always worried about  _ you _ . Above all others. Draco, if he weren’t trapped here, he would’ve come looking for you.”

Draco can’t hold her gaze any longer. It drops to the desk, to the paper. It is his own face on the front page, contorted in desperation, struggling against the hands of Aurors. In the Ministry. Not today’s paper after all.

She notices where he’s looking. “He knew,” she says softly. “She knew you were in trouble long before the report came. He felt it. Had been for weeks. He kept coming to me, asking for a leave of absence so he could go to you. I thought it was another confusion, stuck in the past. I remember years ago, he would beg for leave just like that. For you. He hated that his responsibilities here had to come first. When his frustration became too much, he’d come and shut himself in my office and we’d drink tea like this and I’d listen to him complain about Dumbledore until he calmed down and there was no risk of him complaining about Dumbledore  _ to _ Dumbledore. And then he’d tell me about you. Long before you were ever here, he told me all about what you were doing and what you were interested in and how you wanted to be a professional Quidditch player when you were six and a writer when you were ten. He told me how clever you were and how you could be anything you wanted to be. He told me how much he worried that your father was stifling you.”

“Stifling,” Draco echos. “Is that the word he used?”

“Among other things,” says McGonagall. “Many other things.”

_ She knew _ . Draco turns his face away from her.  _ She knew the whole damn time. _

He isn’t surprised. Or shouldn’t be. It was never as big a secret as he wished it was. But it’s more comfortable to believe he was such a good actor it was impossible to tell rather than the actuality of simply being ignored.

“We have all of us struggled with our consciences,” McGonagall tells him. “And I believe Potter needs to hear this too before the day is out. To be so close to the students you care for, yet to be — at the end of it — powerless to really make the difference you know they need— It’s a terrible thing, Mr Malfoy. And I’m sorry. We are all sorry for failing you.”

He waits for the ‘but’ —  _ But there was nothing we could do. But our hands were tied. But that’s life, isn’t it. _

But it doesn’t come.

She is, simply and finally, sorry.

Draco has no idea what to do with the apology.

“This is what I aimed to convey in the note, though I’m not surprised it felt false. It is better this way, to say it directly to you and avoid misinterpretation. I meant what I said, Mr Malfoy. We want to do our best by you.”

“That isn’t what you said,” says Draco stiffly. “You said, help will always be given to those who ask for it. Which is categorically untrue. You know that. And if you knew Snape and if he talked about me, then you should know—”

“I did. I knew. But do you know many children I’ve known just like you, Mr Malfoy? Over all the years I’ve been here…” She shakes her head. “You become used to it. Just another grouping. Muggle-borns and Pure-bloods, Quidditch-player and rebels, happy to go home at the end of a long term, reluctant to return to difficult parents. Your circumstances are not rare. They are not even unusual. Severus was young and inexperienced when he became involved with you, and he took it all very personally. Which is how it should be. That’s  _ right _ . And it’s time to make it right once more. For too long we have taken for granted that we cannot do anything, we cannot help, we cannot make a difference, and we’ve become complacent. And complicit. I admit this. I regret this. It is time Hogwarts takes responsibility for its charges.”

Draco can only stare at her, absorbing the words into his blood. He had anticipated a debate at best and a battle at worst. To have the headmistress so freely, so  _ willingly _ admit that the system in which they are all so deeply entrenched is wrong at the core—

“Thank you,” he tells hers, earnestly. “Thank you for believing me.”

“I assure you, Mr Malfoy, you have absolutely nothing to thank me for.”

 

 *

 

Without the distraction of Harry Potter and son, young eyes turn questioningly on Draco as he takes the old, familiar route down through the castle to the dungeons. The further down he goes, the more curiosity turns to suspicion. He has no idea how to deal with the attention. He isn’t like Potter, willing to stop and chat, free with fake familiarity, every stare makes him seize up a little harder. Draco hates feeling conspicuous, and he knows they know him, the Malfoy reputation in the next generation of Slytherins as alive as anything. His school years were similar — the Malfoy-blond never failing to turn heads, whether he was eleven and new or fifteen and looking more like his father every day. Whether he liked it or not — whether his  _ parents _ liked it or not — Draco has always been bound by his family’s reputation. No doubt Scorpius will fare the same when he gets here 

Catching the eyes of young Slytherins, It feels like that moment in Madam Malkin’s watching the boy left alone to get his Christmas robe fittings. The same having so much to say and share with these young people, but absolutely no idea how to go about doing so without invariably getting it all wrong. Whatever  diversity exists within his home-house, pride is  _ always _ a given.

_ Later _ , Draco thinks on a breath. 

Time for all of that later.

Right now, only this.

Because his feet are planted right outside a door as familiar to him as the entrance and as welcoming as the Slytherin common room. Slughorn chose a different room to make his own, away from the drab damp of his students’ home.

Severus Snape always wanted to be accessible.

How many times has he lingered here, one balled fist poised to knock? More often of his own volition than by summons.

Snape never turned him away, even in the middle of the night, always there with a candle and whatever potion Draco needed to be at peace again, be it dreamless-sleep or tea or a salve. Draco wasn’t special — of that much his parents have always been right. It was the same for all Slytherins: Home-sick first years, exam-stressed fifth-years, seventh-years in the midst of their pre-graduation existential crises. Where Snape kept very strict office hours for the rest of the castle’s inhabitants, his availability to his house was unconditional.

_ How can it still feel like nothing has changed? _

Draco takes a deep breath and knocks.

There is no pause, no chance to think that maybe — still — this is all a big prank or a dream.

Just, “Enter.”

And it’s him. Distinctly  _ him _ , because how could anyone ever mistake that voice for anyone else’s?

Draco obeys and steps once more into his Snape’s office. 

  
  



	10. Absolution

It is as though nothing has changed and no years have past, and Draco almost finds himself longing for it; to be back at thirteen years old, when all was simple and the fortress of Hogwarts was home. The door makes the same sound, the same two-note creak as he pushes against it, and the room smells the same — a mingle of earth and green-fire and the subtle perfume of dried flowers. The light is the same, low, wavering lamplight, the windows looking out only into the dark water of the moat.

“Late, Draco.” Snape doesn’t look up from his papers, familiar features hidden by the curtain of his hair. “You know I expect you to be prompt when I send for you.”

Draco pulls his shoulders back, hands clasped behind him. “I came as soon as I could.” 

“Not good enough.” Dark eyes flick up and catch Draco’s, and it feels like he’s falling. It’s real suddenly in a way it wasn’t before. In a way he’d never dared permit it to be. Snape frowns. “You look different.”

The question is there, lingering between them, unable to form shape. 

“I’m twenty-five now.”

Snape makes a disparaging sound. “I don’t have time for games, Mr Malfoy—”

“And you are dead.”

The ghost freezes, stuttering like the static on the Potters’ TV screen, and for a horrible moment Draco thinks this is it, this is how ghosts move on — by the reminder of their own strange mortality. But the moment is brief and time starts again as smoothly as though the glitch had never happened. 

Snape picks up a translucent pile of papers and knocks them into order. “I wanted to discuss your report before you returned home for the summer. Take a seat. Your academic work is as near perfect as it’s possible to be without being Granger. I’m not concerned about them. It’s the comments from your teachers that disappoint me, Draco. These are issues we have discussed  _ at length _ , and by this point I can only assume that your determination to be antagonistic is intentional. I do not expect you to become fast friends with Potter’s lot, but I  _ do _ expect you to show your peers and your teachers at least the minimal amount of respect. Yes, even Gryffindors. Yes, even Hagrid.”

Draco sinks into the chair and the past.

He remembers this report, this discussion, the repetitive,  _ Mr Malfoy struggles/refuses to connect/respect his peers/professors. So much potential wasted due to a lack of interpersonal skills. The ends do not justify the means and perfect grades mean nothing if no-one likes you,  _ scripted in ten different handwritings in ten different ways.

He remembers fidgeting angrily, biting his tongue against arguing the unfairness of it. Numerical grades were enough to concentrate on, why should he worry about anything else? As long as his essays were perfect—

But that was twelve years ago and Draco neither needs nor wants to hear this lecture again.

“I am twenty-five,” he repeats, louder. “I’m not a student anymore. You wrote to me, do you remember? Through McGonagall. You said… You said—”  _ Damn, what did the letter say? _ He had paid so little attention to it, scanning the perceived nonsense before shredding and discarding it when he should’ve known… he should’ve recognized…should’ve  _ trusted—  _ “I-I should’ve come sooner,” Draco says stiltedly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I would’ve. If I had—”

The ghost of a touch to his cheek.

“You are here now,” says Snape, voice gentle and more present.

Draco reaches for the hand resting against his face and touches only his own skin. “I hate this,” he whispers. “You should  _ be _ here.”

“I am here.”

“You’re not. You’re gone. You’re dead.”

“Look at me, Draco.”

Those words in that voice have never failed to coax Draco’s head up, as much as he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to face the world that seems determined to hate him, those words in that voice means that he doesn’t have to face it alone.

A cool brush of air beneath his eyes and a breeze in his hair, and Draco raises his face to look up at his godfather through his tears.

“I don’t understand,” says Draco. “How can you  _ be _ here?”

“If it’s any consolation,” says Snape with the first curl of a wry smile, “I’m not entirely sure myself.”

He sounds so real and looks so solid, apart from the distinctly ethereal glow and the pale grey-scale tint. Not that Snape had ever been one for colour in general. Draco makes himself look and see properly, to absorb this moment as face when it feels so much like one of the hundred dreams, one of the thousand memories, only less convincing.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I remember every second of my life,” says Snape. “I remember the moment of my death but beyond that, there is nothing. When I awoke it was like I’d fallen asleep. I thought I was alive. It wasn’t until Minerva told me that I realised I was dead.” He grimaces, rubbing his head like it hurts. “It is still difficult to remember specifics.”

“Does it…  _ feel _ any different?”

“It feels frustrating. As though I’m in a near-constant state of deja vu. Which, in a way, I suppose I am. The others say that feeling passes in a decade or two.”

“The others? The other ghosts?”

Snape nods. “Nick has taken it upon himself to teach me ‘the ways’ as he likes to call it. Not that I’m not perfectly capable of learning ‘the ways’ on my own, but I suppose it is important to feel helpful in this state. Opportunities are few and far.”

“Why didn’t you write to me earlier? Why did you wait…  _ seven _ years?”

Again, the ghost’s form stutters.

“Draco, I know it’s felt like a long time, but it’s only been three months. I came as soon as I could.” He looks younger than a moment ago. Sounds it too. The Snape of Draco’s earlier memories. “Let me look at you. Are you hurt? I only have a little time, your father won’t let me stay but—”

“No, go back to before. I want to talk to you about now.” McGonagall’s warning is a bell in his head:   _ he can span his entire lifetime in just a few moments, from from twenty to eleven to five.  _

“You are so much stronger than you think and so much braver than you know.” That’s a book they used to read together. Draco can almost feel it in his lap, curled up in the big chair in the nursery by the fireplace, listening to Snape read.

But what was helpful when he was five isn’t anymore.

“I want to talk about  _ now _ ,” Draco repeats more firmly. “I want to tell you about Scorpius. My son. I have a son. Scorpius. I want you to know him. He’s so good — the best — but Father’s taken him—”

“You know I cannot act against your father.”

“I know this! That’s not what I’m asking for. I’m not asking for anything really. I just want you to know… I just need you to know that…” Draco falters, suddenly, not sure what to say or whether he should say it. 

This feels like a hallowed moment, and all he’s wanted to tell his godfather to his face is far from sacred. So much so that he has never permitted his thoughts to touch his memory of Snape, too fearful of disrespect, of betraying the memory of the man who loved him.

And it feels like before, like being thirteen and staggering away from Lupin’s classroom, burning with humiliation because it would’ve been one thing if it’d turn into Father — that’s what he expected, that’s what the all expected, Theo and Pansy and Blaise — but for it to be  _ Snape _ , to have the same damned Boggart as  _ Longbottom— _

He had avoided tackling it in class, at least there was that. He didn’t need every fucking Gryffindor bearing witness to what a fucking hypocrite he was with ‘wait ‘til my father—’ and he knew he was lucky Lupin hadn’t called on him when he hadn’t been able to control his mouth, but he hadn’t expected it to turn into  _ Snape _ . Hadn’t prepared for that conversation. And he’d struggled badly enough with trying to find  _ anything _ that might make Lucius Malfoy not completely terrifying. But in the place he’d expected his father to be, stood Snape. 

He wore the sneer he reserved for Potter and the disdain he kept for the likes of Longbottom. His lip curled as it always did when irked by Granger, and his eyes were cold with impatient dislike.

And all directed straight at him.

Draco reeled, forgetting everything he had memorized and studied for. He had been prepared to face his father but this…

A fear so deep it felt blasphemous even to acknowledge it. Because if Snape could look at him with  _ that _ expression _ ,  _ what was left for him?

But he had to… he had to beat it. It was just a boggard, and this was a test. An exam. If he failed, it would be marked down,  _ he _ would be marked down, and his father would see and the mark of his failure would be another stripe across his back. He  _ knew _ the spell, had practised its theory a hundred times, and he gripped his wand so tightly Draco could almost feel it splinter. 

But it wasn’t funny. Could never be funny. And he just couldn’t  _ think _ . Not at the flash of a buckle and he no idea if it meant a beating or something else and something about  _ owing _ and no-one’s ever nice to you unless they want a piece of you in return and—

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

He’d snapped it at Lupin after the professor had stepped in, then at Theo waiting for him outside the door. He didn’t want to talk about it, not with anyone. He’d failed the exam. That’s all he could afford to worry about. No point in any other discussion.

But of course Lupin raised his concerns with Snape who wanted the conversation with Draco.

It was late evening and Draco was in his favourite chair by the fire — the one that implicitly meant ‘do not disturb’ — pretending to read  _ A Theoretical Study of Practical Charmistry  _ whilst trying to reason with his still-battering heart.

“Leave us,” Snape ordered.

There was a brief clamor as the other students obeyed.

The silence that followed was thick and unbearable.

“Draco.”

He tried his hardest not to flinch at the touch on his shoulder. The book creased as his hands spasmed, almost tearing the thin pages.

“Lupin told me what happened,” Snape murmured. “We need to talk.”

“Why?” The word came out jagged like a bitten fingernail. Draco swallowed, refusing to look up from his book. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I lost the marks.”

“I don’t care about the marks.” The almost-admonishment set Draco’s stomach curling. He couldn’t hold the book anymore. He cringed, dangerously close to tears, to losing himself to the fear he despised himself for feeling. “I don’t care about the marks,” Snape repeated, crouching down in front of him. “I care about  _ you. _ ”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco tried again, knowing perfectly well that it wouldn’t fly with Snape.

“Draco, look at me.”

More than anything he didn’t want to. Because what if that look was real, what if it was true? What would it mean and what would he do?

But Snape’s face — his  _ real _ face — was nothing but concern. “Longbottom I can go some way towards understanding,” he said. “But you, Draco? What cause do you have to fear me?”

“I—” He did not want to cry, and it was a herculean effort not to. “I don’t know. It’s not as though I was expecting it.”

“Your father?”

Draco shrugged. “That was my best guess. I suppose I… I suppose I didn’t dig deep enough. Stupid. I-I feel so—”

“Don’t. There’s no need.”

“There’s every need! It was  _ stupid _ . I should’ve known. I should’ve prepared. And now everyone’s going to know that I have the same fear as  _ Longbottom _ a-and I… and I f-failed the exam—”

“You will retake the exam,” said Snape gently. “The circumstances are more than extenuating, and you are fortunate that your Defense professor has a bleeding heart. For once that might benefit a Slytherin. As for Longbottom…” He sighed and shook his head. “I have no idea what goes through  _ that _ mind, but I do have more than a little experience with yours. It is not the same, Draco, however it may look to anyone else. And Lupin is not one for gossip. I know I have some difficult conversations ahead of me, given that  _ two _ of my students fear me enough to make me their Boggart, but I can handle that. More importantly, I want us to be okay. If there’s anything I can do to assure you that I’d—”

“No. I know. I do. Boggarts are never exactly  _ rational _ , are they?”

“No, I don’t suppose they are.” He rose, one hand lingering on Draco’s shoulder, then stooped to press a kiss to the top of his head. “My door is, as ever, open to you, Draco. Always.”

“I know. Thank you, sir.”

Snape had forgiven him as though there had been nothing to forgive. Always had done, in life.

_ Is death different? _

Draco hunches down, frowning at the burn-mark in the desk — tiny, smaller than a silver sickle. “I just… I just want you to know,” he says, “that I’m learning, from all your mistakes. I will succeed where you could not. And it’s because of you that I can. And it’s not a bad thing. Really. And it doesn’t mean that I’m angry or that I… that I think any less of you, only that I want my son… Scorpius is so different than I was. And I want him to stay that way. And that means that  _ I _ have to be different. Not just from Father, but from you. Even though you were 

“Draco.”

“A-And I would never know how if it wasn’t for you. I know what to be and how to be it. And I’m going to fight and I’m going to win. I’m going to win all the battles you lost. I have to.  _ I have to.”  _ The tears come like a wave, but they are not in grief, rather relief; for Scorpius and Severus, and being  _ here _ , doing what they are doing, and Draco is so  _ so _ thankful for it all. He laughs. “I don’t even— I-I can’t even regret any of it. It’s been hell — it’s  _ still _ hell, not being able to get to him — but I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, with more support than I ever imagined. It’s never been more possible to beat Father than it is now. And in the meantime…Pansy’s seen him. She’s says he’s alright. She would know, and she wouldn’t lie. I have… time.” His heart  _ aches _ for Scorpius. It doesn’t feel like he has time, but saying it out loud almost makes it feel true. 

“Where is his mother?” Snape asks. Then, with a beat of confusion, “Who is his mother?”

“Astoria. Astoria Greengrass. Mother married me off to her the moment Astoria finished school. We tried to make it work, but it was never…” Draco takes a deep breath to catch up with himself. “I don’t believe that Astoria means badly, but Mother groomed her well. She is the perfect Malfoy, and as such—”

“I remember Astoria. Creative girl. Talented. She wanted to be a tailor. Thought about an apprenticeship with Madam Malkin.”

“I… never knew that,” Draco admits. It is strange, learning something new about his wife. “She never said anything to me. We’ve never said much to each other. Never learnt how to talk with one another.” He touches the ghost of his wedding ring. “I don’t blame her. I know what it’s like when my parents get into your head. And after Father came home— I couldn’t stay and try anymore. I ran away. Twice. The first time, it was a compromise. Stuck in limbo. I tried to pretend it was what I wanted, and it was certainly better than living in the Manor, but the second time—” Draco grins. “It’s taken a while, and I’m still learning, but I’m coming to believe that I deserve more than what my parents are willing to give me. No matter Father’s best efforts. He hates it, you know, more than I thought. He can’t stand that I’m happy on my own, or that I have people around me who  _ want _ to be there because they love me, not simply because they want a part of what the Malfoy name can provide. I’m with Theo now, by the way, properly. We have a home together. And I’m alli—  _ friends _ with Potter. He saved me, really, gave me place to stay when I didn’t have anything else. I’ve been very lucky. Pansy and Blaise too. She’s married now, to a  _ good _ man, though she’s only just starting to admit it. I think we’re both learning how to be happy. But we are. Learning, I mean.” Draco gives a breathy laugh and shakes his head. It is only now, relating it all outloud to the person he’s wanted to share this with the most, that he can really see  _ how much _ has happened. 

He looks to Snape, tangible and real before him. 

“I wish you’d been here.”

“I am here,” says Snape. “I have always been here.”

“It hasn’t felt like that.”

“Really?” 

“Really.” The word comes out more forceful than he’d expected, but Draco finds he means it. Being present means  _ being present _ , and he’s spent too many years pretending that a thought is enough. It isn’t. It never was. Snape might have stayed with him  _ in there _ , but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t real. He wants more for Scorpius. “I’m not angry. I’m not blaming you. I know you did everything you could for me, and more than you should’ve, but I have to stop thinking I can survive on wishes and promises. You weren’t here. You haven’t been here for seven years. And I— I needed you.”

“No you didn’t.” It comes softly, a simple statement of truth that Draco finds impossible to deny, as hard as his instincts are to try. Because he did. He  _ does _ . He always has. It has been an intrinsic part of his core since the first time Snape crouched to his five-year-old level and tipped his chin up, looking at him with nothing but the concern and kindness Draco hadn’t realised he’d been starved of. He  _ needed _ Snape. As much as he could get. 

“You have done so well, Draco.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Of course I do.”

They sit across from each other as they had so many times in the past, Snape talking impossible sense as Draco resists it best he can because practical sense is so much harder than Malfoy sense. 

Draco studies his hands, fingers long and bare without his ring. He  _ has _ done well. Even without Snape and his guidance, even when it felt like he was thrashing through the thicket blind and weaponless. It has been a fight the whole way, never once letting up and feeling easy, but he  _ has _ done well. He has come out the other side, not just having survived, but thrived and improved and look at his life now. He is better for himself, and better for Scorpius, and when Scorpius finally comes home— 

“I couldn’t’ve done any of this without you,” Draco tells his godfather, looking Snape right in the eye and meaning it with every part of himself. “I could never have managed to become this if you hadn’t shown me what I wanted to be and what I didn’t. You gave me options. That is everything. I won’t waste them.” Options are precious and rare in this world, more valuable than a vault packed with gold. 

Snape rises. He doesn’t move like a ghost, doesn’t glide separate from the corporeal world. It’s like he’s still part of it, with one foot in front of the other until he’s standing above Draco, black robes a soft grey, black eyes just as bottomless as they always had been. 

As much here as he’d ever been. 

A whisper through his hair at the ghost’s kiss to the top of his head.

“You are everything I hoped you would be, Draco.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took much longer than anticipated, partly because it feels like one of the most significant part to Draco's story and because motivation has been lacking. I hope I did it justice. It was originally one scene in a longer chapter, but I felt like it should sit on its own. I would love to know what you think.


	11. Break The Spell

It isn’t just the sight of Severus Snape walking around like he’s alive and breathing that makes Harry gawk when he finally arrives in the staff-room McGonagall chose for their discussion, but seeing how _good_ Draco looks, how much more relaxed and at peace he seems, how much more _Malfoy_ he is next to Snape. And not in a bad way either. He thinks of years ago, seeing them together with their heads always seemingly bent in some sort of conspiracy, years of not trusting either of them, least of all together. Draco has always been stronger with Snape as an ally. It is a strange thing to now know why. 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, taking the seat on McGonagall’s left at the round table. “Had a bit of catching up with Neville to do.” 

They don’t see each other as much as they both agree they should, but that’s what happens with adulthood and the diversion of responsibilities. The best part is it’s never like time has passed each time they do reconnect. 

Professordom is everything for Neville that people keep thinking it should be for Harry. It’s his soul-job, where he was always meant to be, doing what he was always meant to be doing. Harry loves watching him with those kids amongst his plants, witnessing the genuine affection Neville has for both as he cultivates them, raising them to flourish beneath his fingertips. And, of course, Neville had been nothing but exciting to learn what Harry was here to achieve, even if he was here trying to achieve it with Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t that Neville couldn’t forgive Draco, but the trust would never be there. Harry understood it, would never ask anything more. 

“It’s the same with Snape,” Neville told him over tea as Albus tried to tease a young venomous tentacular into biting his finger. “I don’t wish death on anyone and I’m not one to hold a grudge. I know what Snape did for the war, and I know you’ve managed to let it all go, but…”

“I get it,” said Harry gently. “Everyone has their own timeframe. Just because I’m friends with Malfoy, I don’t expect you to be. Merlin knows Hermione and Ron are struggling enough. Ron most of all. I’m not sure he’ll ever come round, to be honest. He hasn’t spoken to me since Christmas.”

Neville’s eyes went wide. “Crikey… That must be the longest you’ve gone, well, ever.”

“Feels like it.”

Neville glanced to Albus, checking the boy was sufficiently distracted, then dipped his head a little closer. “Is it worth it?”

The question stalled him. He’d never considered it like that before, almost like a conscious choice. It wasn’t. It’s just something that was. 

“What would be the alternative?” he asked in response. “There isn’t one. Worth is irrelevant, but for the record yes. I think it’s worth it. If Ron can’t see far enough to understand, that’s his problem. Ron knows I’ll be here when he decides to see sense. I’ve too much to do to worry about waiting for him.” 

Neville had nodded like he understood, but Harry has known him long enough to recognize the little worry lines upon his friend’s face. Conflict has never sat well with Neville, especially conflict between friends. 

“Ron will come around,” said Harry, as though he had any business promising such a thing. “He just needs time.”

Speaking of which…

“The best part of being Head of Hogwarts,” says McGonagall in response to his apology, “is that I now have time to spare. No need to apologize.”

“Potter,” says Snape with a cursory nod across the table on Draco’s right. “You truly have grown into yourself.” It sounds almost admiring, the compliment even stranger in Snape’s voice. Harry knows what it means — _You look less and less like your father_ — and he doesn’t like to think of the rationale behind it. One day they will stop likening him to James entirely, when only his eyes remain the same. 

"You too, Professor.”

He catches Draco’s eye who gives the smallest smile.

And, with that, business gets under way.

 

*

 

McGonagall was always going to be a sympathetic ear, Draco thinks, watching her listen to Harry’s prepared speech. There was never much doubt that Hogwarts would be on their side 

“The basic fact of the matter,” says Harry, “is that, from ages eleven to eighteen, kids spend the majority of their time _right here._ They see their teachers more than their families during this crucial stage of development. That means something. That’s significant. But, up to this point, no-one’s given it the weight it deserves. I know, speaking from my own experience, and Draco will agree with me, a lot of those kids consider Hogwarts home and a haven. But right now that’s a mirage. When it comes down to it, you lot have no power and kids need to know they’re protected.”

“Hogwarts is surrounded by wards,” McGonagall reminds him. “Now more than ever.”

“Which is great for keeping out armies and Dementors,” Harry returns a little sharply, “but completely useless against a parent’s whims. Look, if a mum turned up now and wanted to take their kid out of school, what would you do? What _could_ you do? Nothing. They wouldn’t even need to tell you why or for how long. Their decision is final. Just because not everyone uses or abuses that right, doesn’t mean it isn’t there and doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Right now, at this point, education is a _luxury_. And it shouldn’t be. It should be a right. Look, I’m a prime example. If I hadn’t been the savior, prophesized to save the world, I’d’ve never left that cupboard. I’d’ve had one letter I would never have seen and that would be the end of that. Quite frankly, if my best friend hadn’t been as stubborn as he was, I would never’ve been allowed back. It’s a miracle I managed to get through as far as I did. Now think of all the kids you don’t need, who aren’t ‘special’. The ones who get one letter they never see and that’s that.” 

Potter pauses and looks at each member of the meeting in turn. Draco keeps his eyes fixed on McGonagall. She knows. She knows all of this. It’s as plain as the lines on her face. 

“Do you keep records?” Potter asks her. “Do you have a list of names of all the kids who don’t enroll.”

“Yes,” says McGonagall. “We have that information.”

“And the ones who don’t return?”

“There are records of everyone we send the letter to. Everyone marked as having magical potential.”

“What’s the percentage? Off the top of your head.”

“Minimal,” says the Headmistress quickly. Then, an amendment, “Fifteen percent.”

“Fifteen percent don’t make it through the full seven years?”

“Fifteen percent don’t make it into the castle at all.”

At his side, Draco feels Snape shift. This is new information to him. The ghost flickers, unsettled. Unhappy. 

“And how many do you pursue?”

McGonagall looks like someone slipped a drop of bitter lemon in her tea. “We can’t,” she says stiffly. “It is a parent’s prerogative—”

“Exactly.” 

“We can’t force a child to attend against their parents’ wishes, just as we cannot hold them here without their permission. It is frustrating, certainly, but—”

“No,” says Harry firmly. “No ‘but’. It isn’t right and that’s it. It needs to change. We need to change it.”

McGonagall’s mouth presses in a thin line. “I don’t disagree with you, Potter, but I don’t know what you think you and Mr Malfoy can do.”

“Has anyone tried before?” Draco finds himself asking. 

The headmistress’s eyes flash towards him, then drop. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“I have felt… restricted by my position, certainly. When you live and work so closely with people, you inevitably become attached and protective. You, Potter, for example. I remember you coming to me all those years ago, begging for my permission to attend Hogsmead. My hands were tied, as much as I truly felt like I should be able to help you. Even just within my own house, I had twenty new students every single year. That’s a lot of children. And a lot of frustration when I felt like I could act in their best interest but the law kept me from doing so. Of course it is.” She nods towards Snape. “Severus and I spent many an hour sharing our frustrations. It was all we could do. Complain in private and move on.”

“You are Headmistress now,” says Draco softly. “There is no Dumbledore to tell you no.”

“But there is the Ministry, Mr Malfoy, and the small matter of the law.”

“We’re working on changing both,” says Harry. “But if we are certain of Hogwarts’ support, we’ll have a stronger base to build on. The next step is petitioning the Ministry.”

McGonagall nods, somewhere between proud and concerned. “You have picked a difficult fight, Potter. I’d’ve thought you would’ve wanted to rest after your battles.”

“I tried that,” Harry responds with a sloping shrug. “Got itchy feet.”

“What can we do for you now?” 

Harry catches Draco’s eye and gives a slight nod. Draco clears his throat and pushes the plan three-fingered across the table. “Start with conversations,” he says. “It is the culture of silence that encourages abuse to grow and flourish. Children need to be taught what is right and what is wrong, and if parents can’t be trusted to teach those lessons, it is up to you. Break the spell. It took me twenty-five years to put a word to my experiences, and when I found it, it freed me. I learnt that I wasn’t alone, that it wasn’t my fault, that it wasn’t _right._ And that means everything. It allowed me to make choices for myself and gave me the autonomy to choose my future for myself. Imagine how different things might have been if that spell had been broken earlier. I know you tried to instill that lesson on me,” he says to Snape. “But you were one voice against a million. Imagine if it had been reversed, if the one voice of my father telling me I was worthless had been up against a million telling me he was wrong. It shouldn’t’ve taken this long for me, and I don’t want it to take this long for anyone else. If shouldn’t be pulled out of children in guilty whispers if at all. They should know, without any doubt at all, that they have the support of a castle — a _fortress —_ on their side, ready to defend them. Even if the law does not. Even if you cannot keep a child here against their parents’ wishes, maintain that this is a safe place whilst they are here.

"I was lucky. I knew my head of house was unconditionally on my side, but not everyone is so lucky. I remember having to convince young Slytherins to go to Professor Snape with their troubles because they didn’t believe they would be listened to or cared about. It took so much _work_ just to let them know that they weren’t as isolated as they felt. It shouldn’t’ve been my job. It isn’t enough to wait until someone comes to you, or to notice when something is wrong, because more often than not, in the cases that need your help the most, they will be the most adept at hiding and the most unwilling to talk. That’s the culture. It’s _silencio_ . When you’re told by the people who are supposed to love that you _deserve it_ , that it’s _discipline,_ you accept it as a flaw in yourself. It’s embarrassing and not something you want anyone else to know for fear that they’ll agree. _Abuse_ is what happens to other people, whose parents care about them less. Mine certainly cared for me. They cared about enough to beat manners into me and lock me in my room for three months at a time, chasing the few marks I missed. They cared enough to scrutinize every move and every breath, and control every decision that should’ve been mine. Love, my mother called it not that long ago. She told me, ‘we did it because we loved you’. Love is easier to believe than abuse, and I wasn’t taught how to tell the difference until two months ago. I’m still learning. It shouldn’t’ve taken that long. And it was hard, in the beginning, I resisted it, but finding the word was like finding a new life, and permission to live my own. If you’ve never experienced it, you will never understand, but please believe me when I tell you. When Potter tells you. We’re speaking up now to help others do the same. Help us help them. Maybe we have to start small and slow, but that’s better than not starting at all, isn’t it?”

Draco looks earnestly between the Professors, then catches Potter’s eye.

Harry is smiling; a small curl of a smirk. Impressed. _Proud_. 

Draco’s face burns. 

A chill falls across his knuckles, and Draco looks to the ghost of Snape’s hand laid across his own. He breathes a little easier. 

“These are all very noble thoughts,” says McGonagall, “but what is your plan? Do you have one? A solid, tangible plan?”

“Yes,” says Harry firmly. “Here.” And he passes her another paper, one they’d spent most of last night finalizing. “This is the whole thing, laid out, and right at the top is what we’re hoping you can do right now. It’s mostly keeping notes and compiling records. The thing we need most and soonest is evidence of a systematic problem and proof that it needs addressing. If you have the statistics of all the kids that don’t make it to Hogwarts, we need those. We need medical numbers, admissions to the hospital wing around the beginnings of terms. Keep an eye on the kids. Get the prefects involved. Let them know there is a multi-step support structure in place. We don’t need names, we don’t need specifics, confidentiality is important, but we need the numbers and we need the proof. Set the example to the rest of the Wizarding World to follow. Even if your powers are limited right now, stretch those limits as far as they’ll go. Set the example to follow and start a conversation. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” McGonagall repeats back, and though there’s a touch of the sardonic in the words, her smile is real. 

“I know it feels like a lot,” says Draco. “I know it feels impossible. Maybe it is. Maybe it’ll get nowhere, but at least we will have tried.”

“Do you think you are the first wizards to tackle this?” Snape asks softly, looking directly at Harry. “Why do you think you will succeed where others have failed?”

“Because he’s Harry Potter.”

Eyes turn on Draco, and he meets them all one by one. It’s true, after all, whether they need a moment to remember it or not. 

“He has more influence than anyone I’ve ever met,” he continues. “Maybe not power, certainly not money, but real influence. Whether they wish to or not, whether they agree with him or not, no-one has any choice but to listen to what he says. He will be heard, and they will know that there is a problem. And if they choose to do nothing, that will sit in their conscience. If anyone can, it’s Harry Potter.”

He does not think of the Aurors back at the gates with their jeering faces, nor the memory of Harry Potter sitting next to him in that cell, as condemned as he. He does not acknowledge the twist of warning that Harry Potter’s influence is not what it was, that the Boy Who Lived’s chips are not as infinite as they thought. There is a shift in the air, the first turning of the tide, and as much as Draco knows anything, he knows most of all that they have to beat it, they have to get there first, before the waves drag them back and under. 

There is still time. 

They just do not have enough spare to panic. 

“And you, Draco?” Snape asks. “What is your part?”

“He knows how to work them,” says Harry. “He’s got the inside scoop on all the people we’re really trying to tackle. He’s got experience in all the boring bits I don’t have the first clue of. And—”

“And I’m the proof that it matters.” It comes to Draco as the words leave his lips. He raises his face. “I’m the cautionary tale. No parents wants their offspring to be Draco Malfoy — Death Eater, disowned, disgraced. I’m the perfect deterrent.” 

Harry Potter looks utterly devastated. So do the others. Draco doesn’t understand it. 

“Oh come on,” he says. “Don’t try and tell me that isn’t true. Theoreticals and rules and laws are all well and good, but people won’t stop doing as they please just because they’re told to. They need to be faced with unavoidable proof of the results of their behaviour. That’s me. If you are cruel to your children, they will turn out just like me. I know that’s been one of my leading motivations as far as my son goes. I don’t want him to be like me. I think that’s pretty universal.”

“Give yourself a little more credit, Draco,” Potter murmurs. 

“I’m not being self-pitying,” Draco snaps. “I’m not looking for validation. I know what I am and I know how people see me, and that’s _good_ . That’s useful. We can use it. Me. I-I thought that the most productive role I could play was organization and administration, but that’s not true. We’re talking about a conversation and I have a _lot_ to say. And I’m… I’m ready to say it.” Even so, fear flickers through his blood, the old familiar warning to stay in his place and keep his mouth _shut_. For the first time in too long, Draco chooses to ignore that warning. 

“Your experience is useful,” he tells Harry. “But it is not universal. We need more voices. Mine, and others too. We need the full spectrum of perspective to fill in the gaps and stopper up all the excuses they are bound to use. If we are limited to Harry, they will be a huge surge to ban keeping children in cupboards and helping the muggle-born children get to Hogwarts. Which is wonderful, of course it is, but it isn’t all we need to achieve. Wizarding parents will do anything they can to avoid responsibility and blame. They _must_ be held accountable too, otherwise it’ll only end in another chasm between the magical and non-magical worlds, with the muggles yet another excuse for the wizards not to do better.” He spits the last few words, bitter and furious, because he’s just so _damned_ tired of it all. It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be their job to do. It shouldn’t be necessary in the first place, and yet here they are. 

“There is… one more concern,” says McGonagall. And, when Harry tilts his head in question, “Let’s not pretend that this is a good time for either you or Mr Malfoy to be drawing attention to yourselves. You are both very high-profile, yes, but not for good reasons. Not right now. Is it… wise, to be looking to rock the boat so extremely when you both have so much to lose?” 

Harry shifts. “It’s not like we’re not aware of the risks.”

“If you make the wrong enemies, you will go to prison.”

“And your father, Draco,” says Snape. “If you choose to go public in this manner, you know this will reach him.”

“ _Good._ I hope it does. I hope he knows— _”_

“What about your son?”

It feels at once like freezing and dissolving, Draco’s head ringing with _Scorpius Scorpius Scorpius_. Distantly, through it, he hears McGonagall say, “You fear for him now, do you not think Lucius Malfoy will use your son against you if pushed?”

They all know he will. 

“I will get Scorpius back. I will win.”

“But not quickly enough.” The ghost’s hand settles on his shoulder. “I urge caution, Draco, until—”

“ _But there is no time!_ ” He hadn’t meant to shout, but now he’s started it’s impossible to stop. “There has never been time. This should’ve been done long ago. You know this. You _all_ know this! But it’s always been ‘be patient’ and ‘be quiet’ and ‘behave until the time is right’, which has always been never and it has never been good enough! Yes, I fear for Scorpius, of course I do, and I will until he is home. But I have to keep living and I have to do this, otherwise it won’t just be _my_ father who wins and it won’t just be me who loses. I will not ask them to wait any longer.”

The implication hangs heavy and tangible above the table. The professors are silent.

“Do we have your support?” Harry asks.

“You know you do, Potter.”

 

*

 

They are, of course, invited to lunch.

Albus has been adopted by Neville’s third-year class and sits with them at the Hufflepuff table looking thrilled to pieces, a black and yellow scarf draped around his neck, thriving beneath the attention that comes of being Harry Potter’s son. 

Harry and Draco sit in the guest of honor’s place at McGonagall’s left, Harry deep in conversation with Longbottom who keeps gesticulating a little too wildly with his fork. Draco watches Snape drift through the tables, lingering with the Slytherins. It is a relief to know that Snape is still here to look out for them, though Slughorn is the official Head of House. Draco never put much stock in Slughorn, his ulterior motives too transparent to really be convincing. He was just another of the same and they didn’t need him. Snape was always something else, something different. A rarity in Slytherin. 

As ever, murmured conversations turn up the name _Potter_. Draco feels it like a wave, surreptitious eyes glancing now and again to the man on his right. Harry is deep in animated discussion now turned to Ginny and her career, and either oblivious to the commotion his presence has caused to the attention.

But this time, Draco feels a little of it on himself too. He isn’t sure how he feels, and his first instinct is to reject it outright. He has learned to avoid attention when at all possible, attention rarely ever being a good thing.

The glances that touch him are more cautious than those who look to Potter, and they do not all come from the Slytherin table. Draco makes himself look back and see them all, catching curious eyes, meeting like with like, seeing the faces of the future, those he has pledged to help. Because they are all here, now, laid out before him with their silent questioning.

He remembers sitting in that seat there, between Theo and Pansy, listening to Blaise make wildly vulgar statements about something that certainly did not happen that summer and trying to ignore the tightness in his back and shoulders after three months with his father, only half listening to Dumbledore’s commencement speech that never seemed to apply to anyone but the table on the opposite side of the room. 

“You should say something,” he hears McGonagall murmur, sees Harry nod.

Best start now if they’re going to start at all.

Best start here in the heart of everything. 

And then there’s a hand and he realizes it’s for him but he has absolutely no idea what it means until he’s taken it and Potter’s pulling him up and reminding him, “You and me, Malfoy,” and then he’s somehow standing at the podium, at Harry Potter’s side, facing the future together. 

Every single pair of eyes, without exception, fixes on them.

And this, Draco realizes with a pang of utter horror, is what he has signed up for with that little speech back there, proclaiming that he isn’t just going to sit in support on the side. It means _public speaking_.

Draco winces. _Fuck._

Potter’s words are appropriately bolstering and raise a few laughs in the right places, imploring the students to make the most of their time here ‘because soon you’ll be old like me and wondering how I’m standing up here when I should be sitting down there’ There is the smallest quake to his voice that Draco is sure is only audible to him, being in such close proximity, and he realises for the first time that Harry Potter is just as nervous as he is, that no matter how certain they are of their mission, to be doing it, faced with all those they are doing this for… 

_I want to speak._

The more Harry talks, inadvertently making Dumbledore’s well-intentioned platitudes his own, the more eyes drop as more students decide that these words are not for them. Chins fall into hands, eyes glaze, attention falls away. Harry’s speech is, at heart, a Gryffindor speech, all positivity and upbeat. It is a speech for little Harry, hungry for miracles, not for little Draco who has learnt that miracles don’t exist. 

_I want to speak, let me speak._

“My name is Draco Malfoy,” he says in-between Harry’s paragraphs. “I know some of you might know that name already. I know some of you might know me. This world of ours is very small, very tight, and a lot of the time it might feel you can’t move within it, can’t speak for being overheard by someone you don’t want to be overheard by. Better to be silent than in trouble.”

A few of the fallen gazes flick back up. 

“I know what it’s like, to feel like that,” Draco continues. “There are those who will tell you to be silent. Through your life — in your past and in your future — you will be told that it’s better not to speak up. You will hear it so often, in so many voices you will begin to believe it yourself until, eventually, the person you hear it most often from is you. Silence is safety. It keeps you out of the light, it keeps you out of trouble. If you don’t speak of your problems, it feels like you don’t have them. But it doesn’t make those problems go away, it only hides them from view, only makes those causing those problems believe also that they aren’t problems at all. Silence, they believe, is consent. It’s permission. You don’t speak because when you do, either you get in trouble or no-one listens, so what’s the point?” He pauses to let the words permeate. The air is different than it was with Potter’s speech, heavier, more sullen. That’s good. That’s important. This is a different kind of speech.

“Things are changing,” Draco tells them. “This is not the world it once was. It should not be. It should be better. It should be better for _you_ , and we are to fight to make it so. We’re going to make a world where silence is unacceptable. No-one should be silencing you, and you must take responsibility and not allow them to silence you. I know that that’s hard. I know that that is impossible. But even if no-one is listening, even if you’re afraid, I’m telling you now that you need to speak up. Even if you’re speaking to an empty room. Tell someone when you’re afraid, when you’re hurting, even if it feels like you shouldn’t, like you’re making a fuss over nothing, that you don’t deserve help. It is only ever nothing if you say nothing. If the person you tell doesn’t listen, tell someone else, and someone else, and anyone until someone listens. I can’t promise that you will get the help you need, not yet anyway, but we have to start somewhere and that is by talking. It is far better and far easier to find help when you let people know you need it. Silence doesn’t protect you, it only protects those who want to hurt you. Whether it’s your parents or a teacher or even someone your own age. _Anyone_. Nobody is justified in hurting you and you do not have to protect them at your own expense. 

“Mr Potter and I, we both know what it’s like, to be afraid that no-one is listening, to feel like you are alone and different and undeserving of better. I don’t want anyone of you to feel that way. You are not alone in your experience. The person three seats down might be going through exactly the same thing as you. The person in the next table over might know exactly how you are feeling. The person at the other end of the hall might have a solution you never dreamed existed. Talk to each other. You are not alone, and your greatest weapon against those who want to hurt you is speech. It is not your fault you are being hurt, no matter what they say. No pain is ever earned, is ever deserved. You are not the exception. You are not alone. Talk to your friends, to your prefects, to your head-of-house. Even to us.” He glances back at Harry who catches quickly on and nods. “If you daren’t say anything out loud, write it down and send it to us. We will listen to you, always, and know we are fighting for you.”

The words fill him up, and he knows his eleven-year-old self would be listening now, would be thinking, turning it over in his head looking for the cracks. It would take time, for his eleven-year-old self, but the words would stick and eventually he might start speaking.

No more _silencio._

Draco gives an awkward half-bow. “We won’t keep you further from your pudding.”

Harry Potter gawks at him as he passes to collapse back in his chair, exhausted.

“Bravo,” Harry murmurs returning to his own.

“Thank you.”

“Think you can keep this up, Malfoy?”

“I…” Draco lets out a long breath. He is utterly _spent_. “I hope so. They deserve it.”

“ _We_ deserve it.”

Draco looks at him. “You were speaking to yourself too.”

Harry gives a crooked smile above a fork-full of apple crumble. “Of course. I wish we’d been here, doing this, when I was their age.”

“I hope it does some good.”

“I know it already has.”

After mass sugar consumption, the Great Hall is a moving tide of chatter, and through it all Albus finds his way back to them. He loops his arms around Harry’s neck.

“Neville says that I’m the best helper ever and if I ever get too sick of James I can come’n be his assistant and help grow the plants with teeth and he’ll pay me in donuts.”

Harry laughs, pulling him onto his lap. “Well, that sounds like an offer too good to refuse. You sure you want to go home with us?”

“Yeah, cos I miss my bedroom.”

“That’s very fair.”

 

*

 

They are halfway out of the hall, Harry lingering to have a last word with McGonagall and to collect the paperwork from Madam Pomfrey when Draco catches the eye of a boy.

His face is a wary scowl, dark eyes beneath wild brown curls, and the scowl darkens further when Draco looks back at him, trying to decide once and for all whether to say what’s blatantly on his mind.

Draco decides to be brave first.

“Hello,” he says, bridging the tide of students.

“Hi,” says the boy as though he hadn’t been trying to decide whether or not to approach first. The crowd parts around them as though they are an island in the middle of the ocean. The boy glances around as though warding off spies, “Did you mean what you said?”

Draco almost asks for clarification, but that isn’t the point. He meant it, every bit of it. “Yes,” he says.

The boy nods thoughtfully, chewing a lip, and says nothing more.

Draco tries not to panic. This is what he invited, he tells himself sternly. He invited conversations no-one wanted to have. Still, he hates that they’re needed.

“Do you… need to talk?”

“Not me,” says the boy. “My brother. He won’t want to. I know he won’t. But you said… you said no-one deserves to be hurt or scared. You said that and you said you meant it. I think he should talk but I don’t know how to make him.”

“I don’t think you can make him,” says Draco slowly. “Was he there, in the hall?”

“Yeah. But he’s in a different house. He’s in Ravenclaw and he’s a fifth year, so I don’t get to see him too much. And I know he doesn’t like talking about it but I think he should. I think he should ask for help.”

“With what?” Draco makes himself ask.

“Our father,” says the boy. “He’s mean. Not to me, just to him. Like he hates him or something. Dakin lets him because he thinks he’s protecting me but I don’t want him to. I never asked him to and I don’t need it. He’s the one that needs it but he pretends not to He’s a liar.”

The boy is a Gryffindor, by the stripes on his tie.

“It’s not fair,” the boy continues ruefully. “And I want to help but Dakin won’t let me and I don’t know how. And I didn’t think… I didn’t think anyone could do anything about it before. I didn’t think anyone could help. But… But I think if he knew for real that it doesn’t have to be that way, I think it would make Dakin stronger and maybe he’d fight back.”

“It’s not always about fighting back,” Draco tells him gently. “Sometimes defense is just as important as offense.”

The boy wrinkles his nose in a Gryffindor’s skepticism. “So will you talk to him and make him see?”

Draco hesitates, then fishes in his pocket for a scrap of paper and a self-inking quill. “Tell you what,” he says. “This is my address. You keep this and you tell him I meant every word I said. And if he wants to talk, write. But let him do it on his own time. Sometimes pushing someone can make it harder. Alright?”

The boy nods, staring down at the paper as though committing the contents to memory, the folding it carefully up and stuffing it into his pocket. Then he grins up at with a grin so toothy Draco’s reminded of Scorpius. “Thanks, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco smiles back at the boy. “Any time. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Laurenthian,” he says. “But mostly people call me Laurie.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Laurie.”

Draco watches the boy trot away, disappearing back into the clamor of first-years.

“Who was that?” Harry asks, coming to Draco’s side with Albus elevated on his shoulder.

“The first one to speak,” says Draco, wondering if he’ll hear from Laurenthian or his brother Dakin again.

“Are you ready to go?”

Draco nods fervently. “I’m exhausted.”

“Bit of shopping, then home?”

Draco can’t think of anything he wants more than to be back in the peace of Olive Road with Theo.

“Perfect.”

 

*

 

Albus does his absolute best to try and convince Draco that the thing Scorpius wants most in the whole world for his birthday is the latest racing broom, but Draco is impervious to the tugging at his hand in the direction of Quality Quidditch supplies. Instead, he migrates towards a book shop. It’s a little one, much smaller than the one stocking all the latest manuscripts, mostly second hand, and crammed full to bursting with dusty volumes.

The smell of old books is a glorious thing.

Albus sighs dramatically as the bell chimes on their entrance, then promptly gives way to a sneezing fit and has to go back outside.

Draco knows exactly what he wants as soon as he steps in.

There is a story he used to read to Scorpius when he was very little, maybe too little to remember now, but it was one Scorp asked for over and over. “Again,” he’d command with every ounce of Malfoy entitlement, determinedly flipping the book back over as soon as they reached The End. Their longest run was, Draco recalls, six times in a row.

He takes his time with the searching, enjoying the tranquility of the little store, undisturbed by the owner who’s more interested in reading than his single potential patron.

Draco lets his fingers trail over the gilded script on the spines and the fading letters and the worn leather until he touches the title he is seeking. There are five volumes, all different editions, and Draco chooses the most sturdy one.

The proprietor glances up, irritated at the interruption when Draco sets the book down on the counter.

“It’s a gift,” says Draco. “For a little boy. Do you do that here?”

“This isn’t Flourish and Blotts,” the man mutters, but he’s already moving, already getting his wand ready, not quite willing to let the promise of money go. “And I suppose it’s already a short one. You get one take though, alright? I’m not going to spend hours with you faffing over articulation.”

“I’m a good reader,” Draco promises, unfolding his glasses. “And I’ve read this one out loud a thousand times.”

 

*

 

Having no detours to take this time, they Floo straight into Number Twenty-Six from the Hogshead.

Theo glances up from his work as they stumble from the fireplace and immediately drops everything.

“Welcome home!” Though the words are cut short when he cannot wait any longer for a kiss. “Merlin, has it only been a day? It feels like a year. I _missed_ you.”

Draco laughs, reveling in the warmth of Theo’s embrace, hooking his own arms all the way up around Theo’s shoulders. “Come with us next time,” he says. “I don’t care about practicality. I want you with me always.”

“I think we’re gonna head back,” says Harry, ruffling soot from Albus’s hair. “Make sure Gin and James haven’t murdered each other in our absence, right Al?”

“Blood _everywhere_ ,” Albus agrees cheerfully.

“So?” Theo asks once the Potters have left. “How was it? How was Spinner’s End? Tell me everything.”

Draco does, leant against the counter as Theo cooks then sat side by side, drinking cheap, tasteless wine and eating pasta, and finally curled up on one end of the sofa together, Theo’s chin a gentle weight on the top of his head.

“I wish you’d been with us,” he says again at the end of it all. “I’d love for him to see you. I told him all about you. About us. He’s glad.”

“Of course he is,” says Theo with a kiss to Draco’s crown. “He’s always wanted what’s best for you. And I’m _definitely_ the best.” He laughs when Draco thumps him. “I’ll go with you next time,” he promises.

“And Scorpius too. I can’t wait for him to meet Scorpius.”

Theo is quiet for too long, and he’s too slow and actor to hide the flash of something before it’s already been and gone. Draco sits up sharply. “What? What is it? Is there news?”

“I’m…Not exactly.”

“Then what? _What?_ ”

“Your mother was here, Draco. Yesterday. She left this for you.”

Draco’s heart is a sickening drum as Theo passes the crisp envelope over, taking in the Malfoy crest and his mother’s distinct cursive.

He doesn’t take it.

“What is it?” he whispers. “Do you know?”

“Yeah. It’s a… It’s an invitation. To the Manor. For Scorp’s birthday party.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took much longer than I intended, apologies! Speeches are... not fun, for me all the boys haha And, of course, coupled with multiple projects and the Fruits Basket reboot destroying my soul etc. etc. etc. Anyway, excuses excuses, I've been going over all the chapters I have ready to edit for y'all and I'm excited for it all over again ^^ I hope all who've missed Scorp will enjoy the next few :D - E  
> OH! And I'm psyched to introduce Laurie and Dakin ^^ They're the mains of the original work I'm editing atm and demanded to meet the story I've been sharing myself with haha


	12. A Gesture of Good Faith

Narcissa Malfoy knows loneliness when she sees it. She lingers a little way off, watching her grandson with the horses. Scorpius never showed much interest before, much like his father — Draco having always preferred broomsticks to ponies — but this has become a regular haunt recently, slipping away from Astoria, away from them, down to the stables at the back of the Manor and through the kitchen gardens.

They are her domain; a gift from Lucius when they were young and this world was newly theirs. He was a rider, a keen one, a skilled one, and she — a city girl — had been enchanted. Lucius taught her how to love them and care for them, and how to make them love her in return. The mare was a sleek, silver beauty, as light as a fairy on her feet. That horse is long dead, but she’s had others since and she loves them all. 

Scorpius approaches the beasts fearlessly, and that makes her smile, his little hand outstretched as though insisting they dip this noses to nudge his palm. Which they always do, willingly. They like him. She can tell.

Scorpius is on his tiptoes, trying to scritch Lucius’s large bay gelding between the ears when she approaches. “You could ask him to kneel for you,” she says. “Then you might be able to reach.”

He whips around, all scowling defense. Or trying to be. There is less energy, less determination behind his anger now, ever since Daphne Greengrass’ wedding, as though gradually the point of it all is slipping away until he can only recall dimly that he’s suppose to be angry. 

He hasn’t asked for Draco in weeks. 

No-one else has mentioned it, Lucius or Astoria, and Narcissa isn’t sure they’ve noticed, but she has. He doesn’t speak, still, but speaking is irrelevant. Before, he asked for his father in every movement, every look, every breath that sighed from his body. Now Scorpius has lost his expectation.

And, to Narcissa’s surprise, that breaks her heart. 

Letting go of Draco has not meant — as they’d hoped, as they’d expected — Scorpius coming closer to them, it simply means he is drifting alone, and that is as unhealthy for the boy as staying tethered to a ghost. 

She surveys him now, taking in the evidence of such. 

He is far from thriving. 

The determined glare is faded and listless, the furious little fists hang limp at his side. Even his shoulders have dropped 

Unlike Lucius, she remembers Scorpius as he had been, even before silence had fallen — alive and joyful and  _ loud _ . She can still hear the echo of his laugh ringing through the Manor and, where it had annoyed her before, now she misses it. Even his anger had been energy, had been himself, but this despondent little boy… this isn’t her grandson. 

“We can go riding if you’d like? I can teach you—”

But her presence has spoiled the horses for him, has ruined the sanctity of the stables. One less place he wants to be.

Scorpius shakes his head and pushes past, and heading towards anywhere but her. 

 

*

 

“I think we should extend an invitation to Draco,” she says that night when Lucius is battling with his buttons and cursing them through his teeth. 

He looks back at her, confused. “An invitation to what?”

“Scorpius’s birthday party.” They have invited everyone they know, as is tradition. Those traditions were neglected under Draco, and Narcissa was foolish enough to compromise with him. But Scorpius is the heir, and allegiances are important to form early. Scorpius’s debut into Respectable Wizarding Society is  _ long _ overdue. Everyone who is anyone will be here, and Narcissa knows perfectly well that rumors concerning Draco have been circulating. As much as they’d hoped to keep matters private, she knows it is too far gone for that now. Better to answer those questions. Better to let them all see for themselves that this family is as strong and as respectable as it has ever been. 

Better for them to see Draco themselves and make their own conclusions. 

“You cannot be serious.” Divested of his clothes, Lucius is human. This is the man only she sees, without armor or motive. Neither omnipotent not omniscient as he would have anyone else believe. Just a man. Hers. Her gaze falls, as it always does, to the scar on his collar. There are others now, from the war, from afterwards, but she has known this one for as long as she has known him. He had been self-conscious of it once, trying to hide it from her, baffled when she had blessed it with a kiss. 

“I love you,” she told him, the first time she had told him. “I love all of you.”

She kisses it again now, then kisses him, drawing him down to her side.

“I am serious. It would cast us in a very favorable light. It would ward off the less appropriate question I know people are asking. If Draco behaves, it will strengthen our position, and if he does not then there will be no doubt who is to blame. Whichever way it goes, it will only strengthen our case and weaken his.  _ Whichever _ way, Lucius. If we play it carefully, we cannot lose.”

He settles back against the headboard, mulling it over, unconvinced. “It was your idea,” he reminds her, “to cut him off.”

“I know. I don’t regret it. I’m not going back on it. I just think… I think we can afford a small gesture of goodwill.”

Lucius’s mouth twists and she catches the roll of his eyes.

“More than anything, I  _ know _ it will make all the difference to Scorpius. It will prove to him that we are flexible and want him to be happy, and it will prove to him also that we are more willing to put him first than his father is. Draco will break his faith himself and we won’t have to do anything.”

“You are assuming that Draco will refuse to play the game. What if he doesn’t?”

“You mean, what if Draco realises his errors and publicly begs our forgiveness, repenting his actions and denouncing Nott?”

Lucius blinks up at her, coming slow but steady to the uptake, then a smile spreads. “Narcissa—”

“I know. I’m amazing.”

“I never thought you weren’t.”

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to remind you every so often.” She laughs as he does, slipping down into the warm comfort of their bed. “I would never trust Draco with the Malfoy titles again, but if he can come to understand what he is losing for nothing, if he can come back and play the role of husband and father— He would have no power with which to fight with, this way. It wouldn’t be like before. No-one would be forcing him and he would have no chips to bargain with. You would be Master until Scorpius is old enough to inherit, and Draco would simply be here filling space. The gossip would stop and all would be as it should be.” She doesn’t realise how much she  _ yearns _ for it until the words exist in the air before them. “If we can circumnavigate all these unpleasant trials—”

“Trials you have been a key instigator of,” Lucius reminds her sleekly, raising a flush to her face. 

“I didn’t want our family to come under scrutiny,” Narcissa retorts. “I wanted to bring Draco to heel. I wanted him to face the repercussions of his behaviour.”

“And you think he has?”

“Scorpius has always been the most important part of his world. If losing him doesn’t make Draco understand, nothing will. I think it’s fair to give him the chance. On our terms, of course.”

“Luem won’t like this.”

“To hell with  _ Luem _ ,” Narcissa snaps back. “I honestly don’t know why you still employ her. She is having entirely too much fun at our expense, and after she failed to keep you out of Azkaban  _ twice—” _

“Luem has my full confidence,” returns Lucius firmly. “She is working tirelessly to tie up all the loose threads Draco left behind, and by the time she is done, the rope will be strong enough to choke him. Draco will pay for every ounce of our humiliation, Narcissa, never fear.”

“And if it comes to that, then so be it. I defer to you and…  _ her _ . But try it my way too. At least for Scorpius’s sake. And Astoria’s.”

“Astoria?” Lucius echoes, the slightest frown between his eyes. “What has Astoria to do with anything?”

There is something in the casual question, so genuinely spoken, that makes something in Narcissa’s chest stutter. As much as he purports to like the girl, he forgets her more often than not. She certainly does not have the status she earned by carrying the Malfoy name in his eyes. 

“I believe,” she says, “that like Draco, she needs to be reminded of her duty.”  _ I fear she is straying, _ Narcissa cannot quite bring herself to say. Instead, she says, “I think both she and Scorpius could all do with a little reminder of what family means and what we should all be striving towards.”

 

*

 

The next step is delivery. 

Narcissa consider the issue for a long while, and starts several more intimate letters before settling on the same template sent to other guests. There is nothing she might want to say to him that should be committed to paper, not when they are all under such deep scrutiny. She can only imagine Luem’s glee were she to turn up some evidence of Narcissa’s straying loyalties. Even owls aren’t safe.

She decides, instead, to accompany it and relay her conditions in-person. 

The rules of Draco’s bail were designed to be conveniently one-sided, and Narcissa supposes begrudgingly that they have Luem to thank for that. Draco may not set foot within a mile radius of the Manor or any of its inhabitants, but she can Floo straight into the pitiful little house he now calls home on less than a whim, wards being a forbidden luxury to those under investigation. 

She straightens the pointed collar of her cloak, adjusts her gloves, and step into and out of the fireplace. 

Nott’s head jerks up, his expression at first anticipatory, excited, then shocked, before settling on furious. 

“Get out,” he snarls, jumping up and advancing. “Get out now.”

Narcissa refuses to acknowledge the threat of the wand in his hand. “Where is Draco?”

“He isn’t here.”

“Parted ways already have you? I can’t say I’m surprised.  _ That _ kind of relationship never—”

“He’s away for work,” Nott snaps. “And he won’t be back for another day. You’re wasting your time.”

He gaze sweeps over the cramped space and the close walls, the mis-matched crockery on the coffee table and the discarded socks on the floor. “I can see that.”

_ Draco really gave up Scorpius for this? _

_ He really chose this over his family? _

She had always known that Draco had never entirely managed to recover after the war, but  _ this…  _ This is surely proof that he has lost his mind altogether. 

Lost his mind and lost his way. 

She looks back at Nott and considers him. She had liked him once, had always spoken in favour of his friendship with Draco, had always defended it against Lucius who saw him and his father as next to worthless. She had invited him into her home and her son’s life and  _ this _ is how he repays her?

“I trusted you,” she tells him now through her teeth, her anger at him just as palpable as his at her. “ _ He _ trusted you. You were supposed to help him. You were supposed to set him right. Not  _ ruin  _ his life.”

Nott stares at her. “You cannot be talking about Draco?”

Narcissa had not intended to have a conversation with Theo, especially not this oneBut it is too late now. She feels it all, the sharp betrayal and the fury inside her blood, hating him for the part he has played. Blaming him for it all. Draco has never been able to think for himself, and his recent behaviour has  _ Theodore Nott _ scrawled right across it. 

“If you ever cared about my son, you would have sent him back home. You would have told him this was wrong, that he belongs with his  _ wife _ , with his  _ family—” _

“Family are the people who  _ love _ you,” Nott snaps back. “Draco’s family is me and Scorpius. And I am not the one who tore that to pieces. Go and speak to your  _ fucking _ husband if you’re looking for someone to blame. Go and look in the mirror, Narcissa. Draco would’ve done anything for you. He did. He took that fucking mark for  _ you _ , he married that lovely pure-blood girl you picked out for him to please  _ you _ . Even when he knew it was wrong for him, he went back to the house that he hated and tried to play nicely with the man who  _ you _ let  _ torture _ him his whole fucking life  _ for you!  _ Because he loved you. Because you’re his mum. I didn’t fail Draco. That was all you.” Nott gives a bitter laugh and turns away with a shake of the head. “You could’ve helped him, you know. It would only have taken once and he would’ve been yours forever. But you couldn’t even give him that.”

“I’m giving it to him now.” She feels shaky though she’s proud of the way she keeps her voice steady, and the hand that extends the envelope. 

Nott eyes it warily, hands staying rigid by his side. 

“Scorpius’s birthday is at the end of this month—”

“I know when Scorp’s birthday is.”

“See that Draco gets it,” she tells him. “We will need a response promptly in order to make the appropriate adjustments to the—”

“Restraining order?”

“Precisely.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Scorpius misses his father. It is a gesture of good faith. This has all turned into an ugly business, Theodore, but I don’t think you could possibly understand the importance of reputation when you’ve gone so long without one.”

“Ah,” says Theo with a laugh. “Ah, yes, of course. The precious Malfoy reputation. Don’t tell me that people are talking, Narcissa? Wondering what on earth could have driven the up and coming Malfoy heir into such disrepute? Do they know about me yet? Of all the bullshit you’ve pulled and the damage you’ve done, I’m sure  _ I’m  _ the secret you lot are most keen to keep.”

“You’ve always thought yourself far more important to my family than you are, Theodore. But, when it comes down to it, you’re not. Family, I mean. You never will be. You never can be. Not even to Draco. When it comes to choosing between you and Scorpius… Well, you know Draco. There is no choice.”

She revels in the moment as all the colour drains from Nott’s face, all the triumph pinched out like a dying flame. 

“I…I would never make him choose.”

“Maybe so,” says Narcissa. “But I would.” She turns on her heel back towards the fireplace. “If you don’t give it to him, I will understand.” 

Narcissa leaves feeling elated, like she has done a good day’s work. 

 

*

 

_ Lonely _ was Narcissa’s word, and now that she has mentioned it, Lucius sees it in his grandson. It’s like a lethargy, a sickness, a state that does not sit as naturally in Scorpius as it did Draco, and it concerns him. 

Maybe he should not have been so quick to dispose of the house-elf. 

Scorpius was upset by her absence when he realised she was gone though he did not try to ask questions, perhaps finally understanding that he will get nowhere with his ridiculous hand-gestures. Maybe he has simply accepted that nothing and no-one is permanent. 

Doctors and experts have, thus far, proved entirely worthless. It doesn’t help that there is — technically — nothing wrong him, nothing that can be cured with a potion or the flick of a wand anyway. Belligerence can be battled, stubbornness can be stunted, but that takes time and a particular sort of angle that might not be seen as quite correct, given the scrutiny they are all currently under. Especially if Draco decides to make an appearance at Scorpius’s birthday. Which feels at once a keen strategy and a Bad Idea. Either way, Lucius knows he has to be on his better than best behavior and Scorpius has to appear his best self. 

Whatever else, the first priority is to discredit and disprove Draco. 

“Scorpius.”

The boy glances up with passive disinterest.

Lucius arranges himself on the carpet beside his grandson. “It’s your birthday in a week’s time, did you know that?”

The withering look says Scorpius knows  _ precisely _ when his birthday is. 

“I was thinking of visiting Diagon Alley tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me to choose your birthday present?”

He smiles as Scorpius’s interest piques at the word ‘present’. 

There has never been a child that could not be placated with gifts. 

 

*

 

Scorpius is absolutely sure that he’s going to pick that really big book of Fairy Tales with the tiger on the cover he’d been eyeing in the window of Flourish and Blotts every time they’d passed the shop when they were still living in Diagon Alley, then he thinks maybe he’ll pick a new broom that’s faster than Al’s brother’s so the next time they play Quidditch, he’ll definitely win, then he thinks that what he really wants in the whole world is Lego but he’s not sure they sell that in Diagon Alley and his grandmother is pretty rude about non-magical things so Grandfather is probably the same, and maybe Chess or Gobstones would be better except that would remind him of his dad too much and he doesn’t want to think about his dad. 

The decision turns over and over in Scorpius’s head, all the way into the fireplace, holding tight to his grandfather’s hand, and out the other side again, except the word he said isn’t  _ Diagon Alley  _ at all. 

He’d heard his dad talk about Knockturn Alley, always in the hushed warning not to wander off down there. Draco was always very certain about that. Knockturn Alley was Bad with a capital B.

Except…

Except it doesn’t seem so bad on the other side of the hearth. 

It just seems like Diagon Alley just a bit different. A bit darker. A bit more left than right.

His grandfather’s hand is tight on his shoulder. “Stay close to me,” he murmurs, nearly a warning. 

They’re in London, Scorpius thinks with a pang, staring up at the tops of the crooked buildings. They’re near Diagon Alley, and Scorpius knows Diagon Alley. If he found his way there, he could find his way home.

The thought quickens his pulse. 

He’s small and fast, and if he twists the right way he could probably definitely cut loose and get a good head-start before he grandfather realised what was happening.

Except…

Except he has no idea which way Diagon Alley is, and the streets are twistier and darker, and he’s a bit scared of his grandfather being angry if he gets caught which he probably will if he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, and then he might get in trouble  _ instead _ of getting a present which he doesn’t like the idea of much at all. 

The silver tip of his grandfather’s cane clicks on the cobbles, once for every four of Scorpius’s footsteps. 

If he recognizes anything, he’ll do it. He’ll run, as far and as fast and as hard as he can which is a lot. 

It’s difficult with his grandfather’s hand on his shoulder, but Scorpius does his best to look and see everything, straining and straining for some solid glimpse of familiarity. It feels so close. So  _ achingly _ , almost like maybe his dad might come ‘round the corner at any moment and just be here. 

Scorpius doesn’t let himself wish for it. He’s tired of being disappointed. 

 

*

 

Blaise is in Borgin and Burkes trying to get the best deal for a small silver box gifted to him by an ex-lover when the flash of blond catches his eye. It’s less than a glimpse, just in the farthest corner of his vision through the murky window, and it catches him mid-sentence as Burke counters his demand with an offer Blaise doesn’t quite hear. 

“Will that do for you, sir?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Blaise pockets the coins without counting them, without evening looking, and all but runs from the shop. They’ve already turned the corner, but Blaise has good senses and he follows them at a fast stride.

Rounding a corner onto one of the longer streets, there they are — Lucius and Scorpius. 

Blaise hangs back, following more cautiously. His first desire is to hex Lucius Malfoy and grab Scorpius. That’s what Draco would want. But he knows that would only end badly for all of them. They have to be careful, cautious,  _ compliant _ . Pansy skirted the line already, and she is lucky it did not backfire on her. Better to wait and watch and hoard information. 

The fact of the matter is that Scorpius should not even be here. Knockturn Alley is no place for a child, and certainly no place that a responsible guardian would take their charge. Perhaps they can use this in their favor. 

The hand on Scorpius’s shoulder keeps him close to Lucius’s side but the boy’s attention is anywhere else, staring up and around, looking for something. Blaise knows he cannot approach them, either to confront Lucius or greet Scorpius, but he has a distant hope that somehow the boy will slip away and Blaise will find a private moment to talk to him. 

It seems unlikely, beneath that hand.

Blaise follows them a long way, through the endless alleys of the dark side of Wizarding London. Lucius clearly knows where he’s going, and Scorpius clearly does not. Blaise does, a fraction too late, and he stalls. He doesn’t want to be here. He visited once, a long time ago, and he prides himself with his strong constitution, but this quarter was too much even for him. 

It’s the smell more than anything, and it’s the smell that hits you first. 

Scorpius catches it too, falling back visibly, not wanting to go any closer. 

Lucius nudges him on. 

It’s not quite coercion, not quite something he feels like he should be worried about, but seeing Scorpius in this place makes him feel sick. Draco will be livid. 

There is nothing more he can do, and nothing more he can see that will be useful, and his revulsion towards this place finally triumphs. Blaise turns on his heel and walks as quickly as he can the other way. 

 

*

 

It isn’t a pleasant place, the Auction House, but that is the nature of the business. If you want something, you go where you must to procure it. House-elves are no different.

Scorpius baulks, resisting the hand compelling him forwards. It is a place of nightmares, but as a Malfoy he must grow accustomed to it. House-elves do not live long lives. They require replacing, as evidenced by Haddie. And it is far  _ far _ better to pick your own staff than have someone else do it on your behalf. Lucius has been burned before. He is always careful with his choices, always takes his time and makes sure he gets what he wants. It is a learned skill, knowing the qualities to look for and the faults that can be fixed. No elf is perfect, and it depends on the duties they will be expected to take on and who they will be interacting with. Kitchen elves are different to hand-elves, which are different to garden elves, and so on and so forth, and if he is picking for Narcissa he would look for different qualities than he looked for in his own. Draco too. Scorpius will be no different. It is why he brought the boy along, to choose for himself. With Lucius’s guidance of course. 

It was a warehouse once, a long time ago. The building is a vast shell, with high unreachable windows and a rusted iron inner-skeleton. The ground level is kept clean and respectable, a small platform erected at the back and surrounded by benches for the formal auctions held twice weekly, though they cannot afford to limit business to those times. Not in this financial climate. Lucius always avoids those days if at all possible, when the crowd is thick and raucous, and the air stinking and stifling. He prefers to look around at his own leisure. 

“Mr Malfoy.” The auctioneer — Lucius has forgotten his name if he ever knew it at all — greets him like an old friend, wringing his hand too hard before Lucius can pull free. “It’s been too long. Business has been tragic without my best customers. Your son picks sparsely, sir, and I believe I have only seen him once in all these years.”

“I’m surprised Draco has been here at all,” Lucius muses. “Though the war made quite a hole in our household. No doubt he came out of desperate necessity.” He nudges Scorpius forward. “This is my grandson, the new generation. We are here for his birthday.”

“Birthday!” the man exclaims with an overtly gleeful clap of the hands. “And what a present this is! This is a dying art, boy, you are privileged to have such an experienced teacher.” 

Lucius isn’t quite sure if he’s talking about him or himself, but he keeps an arm around Scorpius as the boy presses closer to his side. 

“House-elves are going out of fashion, I fear,” says the Auctioneer, beckoning them up the metal stairs to the landing above. “Though I doubt it’ll ever come to pass officially, the rumours of the House-Elf Emancipation Act has people talking. And  _ thinking _ .” He pulls a face. “The power of suggestion is as strong as a decree these days.”

“It’s a fad,” Lucius assures him. “No-one wants to do their own washing up. I’d blame the economy more than anything, but that will improve in due course too. Once the world stops pretending to be better than it is, all will return to the way it was. The way it  _ should _ be.”

“Quite right.”

The stench as they reach the top is  _ putrid _ . Lucius has to fight the urge to cover his nose and mouth, keeping a tight hold on both his cane and his grandson instead. Unwashed bodies and filth and fear. Decay, even. Death. 

It is only desperation that brings a creature to this place willingly. Lucius cannot imagine it. Does not wish to even try. His eyes fall to the cuffs clipped around bony ankles behind barred cages. He does not look into the wide round eyes that follow him, hoping to be noticed, to be picked, to be saved, even by a master as infamous amongst elves as he. Anything is better than where they are now. Few come of their own accord, turned away from their homes and lives with no means to find another position by themselves. 

Many have been here for weeks, months even, and it shows. Another sign of the changing times and miserable economy. Lucius wonders idly if those like Granger, so vocally decrying the employment of house-elves realise that  _ this _ is the consequence — fewer funds to spend on care and longer terms of limbo-like imprisonment. It is the elves who suffer, not their masters. Of course, a mudblood could never hope to understand such intricacies. 

Where Lucius does not look, Scorpius stares, lingering behind and unable to do anything but absorb it all . Lucius lets him, permitting the boy to go at his own pace. He is, after all, the one choosing. His movements are tentative and confused, like one who is suddenly faced with the reality of where the milk for their daily bowl of cereal comes from after a lifetime of taking its presence for granted. Each cage has a card attached to it containing the elf’s history, as much or as little as is known, and the circumstances of their presence. Most are causes for dismissal — a fired elf is worth intrinsically less — some come from deceased masters who forgot them in their wills, some are run-aways, some are abandoned, some are simply unwanted. At the very end of the walk-way are the most valuable: young elves born here, untouched by bad habits or cruel masters, the blank slates. Tiny little things barely bigger that a Krup pup. Lucius pays them no mind. Let those who wish to waste their galleons fight over them on auction day. He isn’t afraid of the little work that comes with breaking in a new indenture. As far as he is concerned, it’s far easier to break old habits than form completely new ones from scratch. 

He resists the urge to caution Scorpius away from them. If he wants a play-mate, so be it. But Scorpius doesn’t go near them. Almost treats them fearfully, as though recognizing too much in common with the young elves. 

“If I can offer any recommendations—” the auctioneer starts, but Lucius cuts him off with a sharp, “No. This is entirely Scorpius’s choice.”

The boy turns at that, staring up at him with the crease of a frown between his eyes. 

“Go on,” Lucius urges. “You can have whichever one you want. Pick carefully.”

Slowly slowly, Scorpius drifts away from Lucius, inching a little closer to the faces in the cages. None of the elves say a word, the only sound coming from the young ones down the way, all too conscious of the little whip tucked neatly into the auctioneers belt. 

Then something happens between Scorpius and one of the elves. Lucius isn’t sure what it is, only that it happened and it makes Scorpius pause, then move closer, then drop into a crouch by the cage.

“She came to us pregnant,” the auctioneer murmurs. “I reckon he was looking to get rid of her anyway, but pregnant elves fetch a higher price so he got her knocked up first. All her pups were sold before they even came out, but that one’s been with us a while now. Never says a word neither. Not even when prompted.” His words are evidenced by the welts on her bony arms. “I’m sure she’d have her uses if she’d make an effort to be desirable.”

“I’m not sure my grandson puts much stock in desirable. What’s her name?”

“Letty.”

 

Scorpius already knew that. Not from the tag on the cage, but from the fingers making little shapes behind the bars.  _ Signing _ . She knows he doesn’t speak just by looking at him. She knows  _ him _ . She chooses him. 

_ Letty _ , she signs, pointing to herself.

_ Scorpius _ , Scorpius signs back, trying to make sure his grandfather doesn’t see though his heart’s beating too hard to really care that much. 

_ Silent boy. Deaf boy? _

He shakes his head and taps his lips. 

She looks like she knows, like she understands. 

Scorpius heart  _ aches. _ It would be so nice to have someone to talk to. 

Scorpius looks back to his grandfather and signs urgently. 

For once, he is understood.

“We’ll take that one,” says Lucius. 

 

*

 

Blaise arrives to find the Malfoy-Nott household in moderate chaos, once again over a letter. 

“I don’t know what it means,” says Draco for what is apparently the tenth time in as many minutes, pacing the length of their small kitchen. “I don’t know what they expect from me. What am I supposed to do?  _ What does it mean? _ ”

Theo sits with his arms crossed and his feet on the table, utterly bored by this conversation and the circles it’s taking them. “It means they know they still have control over you, and they’re going to use it and Scorp to make you feel like this. You know that’s what they’re doing, right? This isn’t a peace offering, it’s an act of war.”

“Then what am I supposed to  _ do _ ? Not go? What will that say to Scorpius, that I was invited and refused? Theo, I can’t not go!”

“Then go!” Theo throws up his hands. “I’m not telling you not to, Draco, I’m saying see it for what it is. Another stellar piece of manipulation from your mother.”

Draco’s face is a picture of pain. He looks to Blaise desperately. “What do you think?” he begs as though Blaise can see more to it than Theo. 

“Your parents have never done anything kind without an ulterior motive,” Blaise tells him so bluntly Draco winces. “But you can’t not go. You have to. They’ve made their move, now make yours and make sure you don’t get check-mated in the process.”

“Just don’t have anything to do with them,” says Theo tersely. “You’re not going for them, you’re going for Scorp. You don’t owe them anything but the most basic courtesy, if that. Be civil and it’ll drive your father mad.”

At the mention of his father, Draco sits down heavily. 

Theo and Blaise exchange looks. 

“You don’t need to have anything to do with him,” Theo says. “Just steer clear. If he tries to goad you, that’s on him but you cannot fall for it. That’s what they’ll want. That’s what they’ll be expecting. Just focus on Scorp.”

“Can you not come with me?” Draco whispers. “It would be so much easier with you there.”

Sharp regret lines Theo’s face as he sits beside Draco. Their foreheads touch. “I promise you, if I could I would. She made it quite clear what their stance is regarding me. It’s better for both of you if you go alone.”

“Scorpius would love to see you—”

“Scorpius deserves a peaceful birthday. It’ll mean everything that you’re there.”

Blaise catches Theo’s eye over Draco’s shoulder, and he sees how scared he is. And not for Draco either. Not wholly, anyway. But for himself; the question of  _ What if Draco doesn’t come back? _ visible across Theo’s face. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks always to all who review <3 The next chapter is one of my absolute favourites and I'm so excited to share it with you! Let me know what you think x


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